


come what may

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 16:24:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13930806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: “How old are you, comrade?” the man asks, instead of answering him.“Nineteen, sir,” Dmitry answers dutifully. The man has a gun at his hip and a temper. Better not provoke him if he doesn’t want to end up with a bullet between the eyes.“I take it you didn’t fight during the Great War.”“I was locked at Tsarskoye Selo with all the other servants before I was of age,” he replies with what can only described as a mocking smirk. Then, after a pause, “sir.”(Dmitry is the kitchen boy in exil with the Romanovs. That's only the beginning of his story, if the end of theirs.)





	come what may

**Author's Note:**

> Jesus... That feeling when you start writing a oneshot, and then you're 10k in and they've barely reached Moscow, and you have to admit it's just going to be a monster of a fic. I'm glad I can put it behind me, y'all, it's been a very intense few weeks of writing!

Dmitry has never been to the upper floor of the house before. He, like every other member of the family’s staff, is limited to the few rooms that make the Romanovs’ apartment, sharing a cramped room with the other cook and the maid at night. 

The upper floor isn’t any different, if more austere. It lacks all the religious icons the girls put on the walls, as well as the warmth that comes with Alexei’s jokes and the Tsar’s voice when he reads out loud to his children. Here, the walls are bare and only a table and two chairs fill the room. Dmitry doesn’t sit, electing to stand in the middle of the room instead, chin high and arms folded behind his back. 

“Your name, comrade?” the man sitting at the desk asks. His eyes have this hardness to them that never announces something good, and it goes along with his Bolshevik uniform. Dmitry knows better than to believe this man wants what is best for the royal family. The Tsarina may still believe they will make out of the country and into exile, but Dmitry knows better. 

“Dmitry Constantinovich Sudayev, sir.”

Recognition sparkles in the man’s eyes. “The son of Constantin Sudayev?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And yet you worked for the royal family.”

“Yes, sir –  _ worked _ , sir?” His brain catches up with the use of the past tense, making him frown. His intention never was to leave the house, after all. 

“How old are you, comrade?” the man asks, instead of answering him. 

“Nineteen, sir,” Dmitry answers dutifully. The man has a gun at his hip and a temper. Better not provoke him if he doesn’t want to end up with a bullet between the eyes. 

“I take it you didn’t fight during the Great War.”

Dmitry knows what is implied there, if only because the guards at Tobolsk whispered the same words about him. How could the son of an anarchist choose loyalty to the Tsar over fighting for his country? He always looked older than he was, after all; lying to get into the army before he was a man would have been an easy thing to do. Too easy, perhaps. 

“I was locked at Tsarskoye Selo with all the other servants before I was of age,” he replies with what can only described as a mocking smirk. Then, after a pause, “sir.”

The man tsks and glares at him. Dmitry stares back, unimpressed. 

“I have a boy. Two years older than you are. He fought valiantly. I am proud of him, and what he did for our beautiful Russia.”

“Nobody to be proud of nothing about me, sir.”

“The Tsar made sure of that.”

Dmitry holds his head higher, refusing to react to the easy provocation. Out of everyone in this country, he maybe have the best reason to hate the Tsar. It is the man’s fault his father died the way he did, after all. And although he may not approve of Nicholas’ political choices, although he will agree that the man reaped what he sowed… well, Dmitry has his reasons for staying in the Romanovs’ service for so long. 

“Anyway…” the man goes on, so casually it takes Dmitry a second to recover, “You are dismissed from your position, effective immediately.”

Dmitry opens his mouth, but no word comes out at first. His brain catches up with his ears by the time he manages to speak once more. “Can I at least say goodbye?”

“No need for such sentimentality,” the man answers dismissively. “Not like the coward and his German bitch will miss you anyway.”

_ I was not thinking of the Tsar and Tsarina, _ he thinks bitterly. But of the other servants, who will wonder about his disappearance, the other servants who have been through the same nightmare as he has. The Tsarevitch who used to play cards with him every evening. Olga and her stern eyes. Tatiana’s kind words and optimism. Maria’s cheekiness in the face of adversity. 

And her. 

Her. 

Dmitry stands straighter, squares his shoulders. Doesn’t say anything. Silent acceptance of his fate, and of what it means for him. For them. Dmitry is not a stupid boy. If the Bolsheviks want him out of the house, it is for a reason, and the conclusions are easily drawn. Dread crawls up his spine. Saying goodbye would allow him to warn them, and then what? They are weak and underfed and the Tsarina is sick. They wouldn’t stand a chance against trained soldiers. 

“The Englishman is still in town, or so I’ve been told. Feel free to join him, but don’t leave town. We will need to speak to you again.”

Dmitry knows better than to argue. 

“Yes, sir.”

 

…

 

The oil is long burnt in the lamps when the gunshots echo in the dead of the night. 

A whimper escape his lips, and tears roll down his cheeks. 

 

...

 

Despite the Bolshevik’s threats, and Sydney’s warnings, Dmitry leaves Ekaterinburg the following day. No point staying any longer, not with the ringing that still echoes in his ears and the taste of copper on his tongue. 

(He may have bitten on it until he bled last night, willing himself to sleep and to swallow back the sobs. Sleep evaded him until he passed out, exhausted and heartbroken.)

He shoves his mere belongings in a satchel – a change of clothes, some food and a bottle of water – before leaving Ekaterinburg behind him for good. Not that he will miss that dreadful city, and all the bloody memories clinging to it. 

Snow is still in the air, making everything crisp and silent as some snowflakes fall in his hair. It will be a long walk back to Petersburg. Maybe he can win, or find, enough money for a train ride instead. It’s been a while since his years as a street rat, but those habits never really leave you. 

At least it is July, and not December. 

He wouldn’t last a week through the Siberian winter. 

The road cracks under his feet, but is thankfully not slippery. It’s actually a nice day, all things considered, blue sky and very little wind. Perhaps it is the worst part. For the world to still be beautiful despite the atrocities of last night. But better not think about this now. Better leave them all behind, if he wants to make his way back to Petersburg safely. The Romanovs have been a thing of the past for months. And they are no more, today. 

He must have been walking for half an hour, not a living soul around, before he notices something is not quite right. Like the air is charged with electricity. It must be his paranoia of being followed, and he leaves it at that for another two minutes.

That is, until he sees the blood in the snow. It’s hard to miss, bright crimson on white, and Dmitry frowns at the sight. The part of him that has kept him safe and alive for the last nineteen years tells him to look the other way and mind his own business. But Dmitry is his father’s son; he could never leave someone behind if they are in danger. So he follows the blood stains, down the road at first, then into the forest. 

A strangled gasp escapes him. 

He would recognise that strawberry blonde hair anywhere, not to mention the white dress and light blue sash. The mere breakfast he had this morning rises up in his throat at the sight of blood covering her dress and body, but his instincts kick in and let him jump down the ditch anyway. 

“No, no, no. Please, no,” he mutters to the heavens. Or perhaps to himself. To anyone listening. 

His fingers are trembling so much that he can’t even find the pulse on her neck at first, and it makes him panic even more so. Dmitry has never been good in stressful situations. 

He heaves a breath, and sits back on his heels, running his blood-soaked fingers through his hair. That is when he notices it. Small and weak, but present. The tiny cloud of cold smoke when she takes an hesitant breath. Relief courses through his veins as he leans toward her again, presses his fingers to her frozen cheeks. Her lips are blue and her skin red from the cold, but she is alive. 

Anastasia is alive. 

“Come on, darling,” he tells her in a soft whisper. “I know it’s been a shitty night, but open your eyes for me.”

He is in the middle of shrugging off his coat so he can pull her up and into the warmth of the fabric, when his eyes fall on her chest. Or, rather, on the massive gem sewed in the middle of her dress’ collar, now pierced in half by a bullet. He brushes a thumb against the metal, a breathless laugh on his lips. What were the odds, really?

A symbol of her family’s privileges is what kept her alive. 

Dmitry appreciates the irony. 

Still, he does shrug off his coat, and he does grab Anastasia by the shoulders to pull her into a sitting position. She falls against his chest instead, but it’s fine. He wraps the coat around her shoulders, and she sighs softly into his neck. It soon turns into a small whimper of pain, and Dmitry’s finger runs through her hair in what he hopes to be a soothing matter. 

He never touched her before. It was forbidden, not that he had any reason to touch her in the first place. The intimacy of the moment, along with his relief at Anastasia being alive, is overwhelming to say the least. 

“My head…” she complains, so softly he would have missed it were it not for their proximity. 

She leans away from him to press a hand to her temple. An ugly bruise blossoms all the way down her cheekbone, yellow and purple. Some blood is caked into her hairline. But, all things considered, she is otherwise fine. Alive. It’s all that matters. Bruises fade away, wounds heal. She’s alive. 

And confused, if the look she gives him is anything to go by. “Who are you?” she asks, head tilting to the side. 

He frowns at her. “Don’t you remember?”

“Would I ask if it did?” she snaps back, and it almost makes him laugh. Little brat. But she frowns too, and looks around them, and frowns some more. “I… I don’t remember anything…”

He blinks. “Anything?” 

She shakes her head, and a curse escapes his lips. Sure, her not having memories of her entire family being slaughtered might be a good thing in the short term. But it’s not exactly going to make their lives easy. 

He licks his lips and looks back to the road. Already, his street rat instincts are kicking back in. Although going back to Ekaterinburg would be the easiest solution – it has food, and beds, and a train station leading to Petersburg – they can’t risk anyone recognising Anastasia. She is dead, and she must remain that way. 

Still, she can’t exactly walk across Russia in those conditions. Or that dress, for all it matters. He heaves a breath but doesn’t release it for a few seconds, before he sighs loudly. His fingers find her face again, cupping her cheek. She’s only seventeen, he reminds himself, and she lived most of her life in seclusion, in a beautiful palace. This isn’t going to be easy, and Dmitry’s shoulders slump under the weight of responsibilities. 

He hangs his head low for a moment, ignoring her confused stare as he grabs the satchel by his hip. “Do you trust me?”

Her eyes are burning when he looks back up at her, unswerving. “Yes,” she answers, the word so simple but sounding like finality in her mouth. 

_ You shouldn’t _ , he wants to reply but doesn’t. Instead, he opens his satchel and grabs a spare change of clothes. “Go begins this tree and change, okay? We have a long way to go.”

She takes the trousers and shirt from him, but doesn’t move. Thankfully, she is in too big of an haze to ask about the dress she is wearing, and Dmitry uses it to his advantage. Just like he will with the diamonds sewed into the fabric. 

“What’s your name?” she asks instead of doing what she’s been told. 

Dmitry smiles at her, and the stubborn set of her jaw. “I’m Dmitry. And you’re Ana–Anya. Your name is Anya.”

She smiles, and finally stands up. He follows, just in time to catch her elbow when she sways on the spot. Her eyes are wide with surprise but she doesn’t complain, instead clutching his clothes to her chest before going to hide behind a large tree. Dmitry wills himself not to overthink the sound of ruffled fabric, nor the way his clothes dwarf her body when she comes back by his side. Her fingers are hidden by the hem of the shirt, and she had to roll the trousers all the way up her ankles. The small slippers she wears will soon be a problem, but he’s planning on finding her more appropriate clothes anyway. 

“Much better,” he whispers, using the sleeve of his own shirt to wipe some of the blood on her temple away. 

“Thank you,” she says. It’s not only about the clothes, but neither of them point it out. 

His voice is strained when he replies, “You’re welcome.”

 

…

 

After a small breakfast of bread and water for her, and ripping all the diamonds off the dress for him, they start walking. The sun is high in the sky now, turning the ice into mud and allowing Dmitry to walk coatless without shivering every five seconds. It is a long way to Revda, the closest thing that passes for a city in those parts of the country, so he rather enjoys not spending them freezing to death. 

He also rather enjoys spending them babbling away to Anastasia. She has very little to say, but she does listen as he talks about his childhood in Petersburg and the mischief he got himself into as a child. She even cracks a smile or a small laugh here and there, which Dmitry counts as a victory.

It’s another two hours or so before a farm appears in the distance. A dog is barking from inside and some chickens are running around, but the place is otherwise empty. He would think it abandoned were it not for the laundry on the lines and the relatively good state of the buildings. 

“Perfect,” he says, crouching behind the fence. “We can get you new clothes and be on our way. That skirt would look lovely on you.”

Anastasia crouches by his side, her eyes traveling between Dmitry and the drying clothes twice before she understands the meaning behind his words. “That’s  _ stealing _ ,” she gasps. 

“I’d rather think of it as borrowing without planning to give it back.”

The look she offers is unimpressed at best. “Or, as I like to call it, stealing.”

He shoots her a grin. “It’s a long way to Perm. We can’t afford to look like vagrants when we make it over there, and that’s exactly what you are right now.” 

She raises an eyebrow and, just for a moment, he’s afraid she might slap him. But the fastest she understands not everything about their journey will be legal, the better. 

Anastasia still looks upset at the idea, but resigned too. That is all Dmitry needs to jump over the fence, despite her angry whispers to come back immediately, and run toward the laundry. He grabs the skirt and a pair of woollen tights for her, a coat for himself. Nothing else peaks his interest. Anya will have to go on in those slippers a little while longer. 

She’s still glaring at him when he makes his way back to her and shoves his booty in his satchel. He elects to ignore her and to keep walking; she’s by his side with a huff only seconds later.

“Why Perm?” she asks after long minutes of brooding silent. Like it pains her to actually speak again. Dmitry smirks. 

“It’s the closest city with a train station. I don’t know about you but I don’t feel like walking all the way to Petersburg.”

“Yeah. The less time with you, the better.”

He laughs out loud at her jab, not even upset in the slightest. Anastasia has always been known to speak her mind even when she wasn’t supposed to, so unlike the lady her mother wanted her to be, that it’s almost refreshing to hear she hasn’t lost her touch, if anything else. She may resent him all she wants, but she will make for an interesting travel companion, that’s for sure. 

“Wait until you get to know me better,” he can’t help but tease. “And then you will regret those words.”

“I very much doubt so.”

But a smile ghosts on her lips as she walks on, and Dmitry can only mirror it with a grin of his own as he follows her along. Turns out that Anastasia gives as good as she gets when it comes to teasing and, since they have no company but each other’s on this deserted road, they spend several hours simply ruffling the other’s feathers. 

The sun is low in the sky by the time their feet get too sore to go on but, with no farm or village in sight, they have no choice but to stop on the side of the road. A small grove of trees will have to do for the night, protecting them from the wind and strangers alike. 

Dmitry shares a piece of cheese with Anastasia before telling her he’s taking the first shift. She insists on being woken up in two hours to let him rest, before she turns her back to him and finds a somewhat comfortable position to sleep. She pillows his satchel under her head and wraps the coat around her upper body, snoring softly in only a matter of minutes. Dmitry is impressed.

Despite how easy it was for her to fall asleep, it is not the peaceful slumber of babes. She whimpers and trashes in her nightmare-filled sleep, but Dmitry doesn’t dare waking her up. Even a hand to her shoulder, a brush of his fingers against her coat, is a reminder of her rank and his. He would never have been allowed to touch her, were the situation different, and the reminder comes with the echo of gunshots in his mind. She has been so brave thus far, that Dmitry wonders how much longer she will go without asking questions. 

Much to his embarrassment, cheeks burning at the sight, she ends up pressed against his thigh in her sleep. Seeking warmth, without a doubt, and setting his blood on fire. He wakes her up soon enough, only to spend too long falling asleep. Then she wakes him up once more, and takes a shift of her own in the early morning, before they decide to leave. 

The next day happens much the same way, with all the walking and the talking and the bickering. Anastasia seems to enjoy hearing about his childhood, though Dmitry’s stories grow scarce quickly enough. His father died when he was ten, after all, and his aunt was fast to find him a job as a palace servant. One less mouth to feed, she said. She had too many children and too little love in her heart for an orphan boy. 

They make it to Redva before the sun sets, which is a relief. Dmitry has packed for only one, and food is already running low. Not to mention their need for a real bed and proper hours of rest. Thankfully, Dmitry still has money from his last pay. Not much, but enough. Pawning one of the diamonds would make things easier, but it would also make tracking them easier for the Bolsheviks if they put their minds to it. Better disappear for the time being, just in case. 

The inn is nothing short of… we’ll let’s just say it’s not much. But they have a roof above their heads and warm, if over-salted, food in their plates. Dmitry has had worse nights. 

“Why did you say we were siblings?” Anya asks him as she fluffs her pillow. 

He takes his and drops it on the floor before moving to the cupboard and grabbing a spare blanket. Won’t be his first night sleeping on the floor. “Would you rather I say we eloped?”

Anastasia makes such a face that Dmitry can only laugh at her. Prissy little princess. “Gross.”

“So are you,” he teases, and dodges the pillow she throws at him. 

“Give it back,” she demands, sitting on her ankles on the mattress. She wears nothing but his shirt, long enough to hide her thighs but very little less. Dmitry fails at not staring. 

“Take it back yourself.” He lies down on the floor and drapes the blanket over himself before crossing his arms on his chest with a challenging look toward her. She is stubborn but so is he, and Dmitry doesn’t have the patience to be at her beck and call every time she so much as snaps her fingers his way.

He closes his eyes, and smirks at the sound of Anastasia stomping her way to the pillow, then back to the bed. If he were a most honest man, maybe Dmitry could admit to himself that he’s mostly pushing her buttons to forget about the reason they are stuck together; that he would rather get under her skin than remember the way he shivered with fear all through the night. That he would rather annoy her than leave her the time to ask questions. It’s better if she doesn’t ask. He wouldn’t know what to answer anyway.

“What happened to me that night?”

Her voice is soft, and so is the curse on his lips.

Of course.

He feels bad, lying to her. No amount of ‘It’s for her own good’ sounds right, no matter how convincing he tries to be. She could keep this secret, if she wanted, but. But a mistake can happen so fast. But he doesn’t want to plague her with the knowledge that her family was slaughtered in front of her eyes. But he, selfishly, doesn’t want her to have the upper hand over him. It’s awful. He’s a monster.

“They were royalist,” he finds himself saying, a lie as close to the truth as he can. “The Bolsheviks found out, and weren’t too happy about it. They killed them all.” And then, after a pause, “But you survived, so I guess God had other plans for you.”

“Why would God let me live, but kill my family?” There is a sob in her voice she can’t hide. Dmitry makes for sitting up on his elbows, for comforting her, but Anya snuffs the candle before he can. “I wish you didn’t tell me.”

And so does he.

 

…

 

They, somewhat miraculously, stumble on a farmer traveling to Perm for some agricultural market the following day. Dmitry barters for an hour before the farmer agrees to let him drive one of the carts, full of bags of grains and pulled by two fat ponies. The cart doesn’t make for comfortable transportation, but it’s better than walking and neither he nor Anastasia even think of complaining about it. 

She found an old, battered copy of War and Peace in their bedroom, and reads it in silence. She barely offered two words since breakfast, obviously still upset about her family – not that he can blame her. Dmitry remembers a little too sharply the pain of his father’s lose. A wound that time will never perfectly heal. 

It leaves Dmitry with little to do, if staring at the Ural countryside and making sure the ponies stay on track. Never would he have thought he’d end up so far away from Petersburg. The city had been all his life as a child, his playground. The map is still branded into his brain, even if he wonders how much the city has changed since the Reds took over. Will he even recognise it when he goes back? Will he mourn her like a lost lover?

He will not miss Siberia, that much is certain. He’s glad to leave it all behind, even in such circumstances. Even knowing the Romanovs were never supposed to be back to the capital. 

Not the Romanovs. 

Only one. Only her. 

She chews on her thumb before she turns a page, unaware of his glancing at her. Up until being locked in the same house, she didn’t know his name. Didn’t even know he existed, most likely. Even in Ekaterinburg, only Alexei, and sometimes Maria, were acting like he was a human being, and not a servant. Olga and Tatiana never gave him the time of the day, as did their mother. Which is probably why the Revolution was so effective. The Romanovs were not humans, not really. They were above that. But even deities have to fall one day. Lucifer did. 

“Why are we going to Petersburg anyway?” she asks him later that night, after a meal of beans and bread. The farmer’s dog, a giant mutt that looks more bear than wolf, sits at her side with its head on her thigh. 

“Hopefully someone will be there to help us,” he answers vaguely. 

Last he heard, her aunt Olga was still there. Unless she escaped to Europe, or the Bolsheviks got to her. Whatever happened first. 

Anastasia nibbles on her bottom lip, pensive, before she admits, “I’ve been dreaming of Paris. I think… I think someone might be waiting for me there.”

Dmitry rakes his brains all he wants, but still can’t for the life of him remember which royal is supposed to live in France. To many of them all over the place to keep track. Not that he cared all that much, preferring to focus on his work and ignoring the maids’ gossips. They did like their whispers, at Alexander Palace. 

“Maybe. Petersburg is closer than Paris, though.”

She stares at him for a few more seconds before, with a scoff, she goes back to her book. That is how the following week unfolds, with little to no disruption to their routine: Anastasia reading in silence, a short break for lunch, then back on the road until evening. They sleep in the back of the cart, and she wakes him up with her nightmares at least twice a night, crying and whimpering. She never wakes up, always scoots closer to him until his warmth soothes her back into peaceful rest.

And then again the following morning.

Thankfully, the farmer makes for, if not interesting conversation, at least conversation in the evening. They trade stories and news, which is how Dmitry learns that trading in Perm is better than in Ekaterinburg – less Reds to stare down at them and lower the prices in the name of fairness and equity. Dmitry bits on his tongue not to scoff out loud.

Anarchy runs in his blood, after all.

Anastasia finishes her book on the morning of their last day on the road, and then stubbornly stares at the landscape instead of attempting conversation with him. It’s fine with Dmitry; he can be stubborn too. Still, he has to admit he misses her. She might be sitting by his side all day long, and sleeping tucked against his shoulder all night long, but he misses her. Her fire, her barbs. Everything she had to offer, and doesn’t. So Dmitry decides to be the bigger person, just this once.

“I’m sorry.”

She turns her head slowly to look at him. “What for?”

“The way I told you about your parents, it was… indelicate of me.”

“Yes, it was,” is her only reply at first, and Dmitry fights back the urge to snap at her again. What is it with this girl and how easily she gets under his skin? “But I don’t think there was a way to say it without upsetting me.”

“I could have done better, though, and I’m sorry.”

A smile ghosts on her lips, but she doesn’t add anything more. When she turns to look at the landscape again, it’s with less tension in her shoulders and between them. Her fingers stroke the mutt’s fur; Dmitry wonders what happened to Joy, Alexei’s dog. He wonders if the Bolsheviks would be so heartless to kill a dog, until he remembers they butchered an entire family. They were soulless and rotten to the core from the very beginning, dog or not.

“It’s about time we arrive,” she comments a few minutes later. “My butt is sore.”

A nervous chuckle escapes Dmitry before he can swallow it back at the thought of the Tsarina’s horrified face if she were to hear her precious girlie talking in such crude manners. He can’t help it when he makes a comment about his own butt, neither when they start trading fantasies of a warm, flower-perfumed bath and complimentary massage in a luxury hotel. Such a discussion with the Grand Duchess Anastasia would have him fired in a matter of seconds. The same discussion with Anya is the most delightful thing to happen in days.

“You both never went to Perm, huh?” the farmer shoots at them from the other cart.

They stop their loud, enthusiastic conversation to offer him twin, confused looks. “No?” Anastasia says.

The farmer laughs. “No nice hotel there, little missus, that’s for sure!”

That’s… a bit of an understatement. Perm is grey and cold and ugly, large streets filled with dirt and melting snow, building looking like they’re about to crumble on themselves. Anastasia tries to make the best of it with a little ‘ahhh!’ at the sight of the opera, but the thing is so small it could fit into one of the Catherine Palace’s ballrooms. Not that she knows that.

The farmer stops in the park in front of the opera, thanks Dmitry for his service, and lets them go. Dmitry sighs as he opens his satchel, Anastasia trailing behind him, and shoves a few roubles in her hand. She looks down at them, confused as to what she is supposed to do with the money.

“Let’s divide and conquer,” he tells her. “One hour to go around and look for work at best, lodging at worst. Then we’ll go for lunch and try again.”

“One hour then we meet here?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

She shrugs, as if it is of no importance. Dmitry wonders what would happen if he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. If it would put some sense into her. “Don’t get lost,” he says instead, before striding away.

After a short but effective conversation with a burly man, Dmitry’s feet lead him to the river bank. He wrinkles his nose at the grey, sad water – a far cry from the Neva and Petersburg’s canals. But there is no denying the factories along the bank, and that will have to do. A job is a job, after all, and Dmitry was never afraid to roll up his sleeves. A few weeks in one of the factories, if they’re careful about finances, should be more than enough for lodging, food, and two train tickets to Petersburg.

Less than this if Anastasia finds something too. Even less if he pawns one of the diamonds lying heavily at the bottom of his coat’s pocket, but he doesn’t have the heart to do it now. Not if he has other options. Not when they’re still so close to Ekaterinburg. The diamonds are not his to sell anyway.

So instead he goes back to the opera and the marketplace. He finds Anastasia before he finds the spot where they are supposed to meet, deep in conversation with a woman. As if sensing his eyes on hers, she turns around and, for what might be the first time in her live, grins at him. It does something to the pit of his stomach that Dmitry elects to ignore. Ridiculous.

“Mitya!” she calls, waving at him excitedly. “Mitya, come!”

Dmitry forces himself not to frown at the sudden familiarity and warmth in her voice, instead doing as she says. He smiles politely to the other woman – older than them by but a few years, with long brown hair and heavy curves. She looks kind, at the very least, even if Dmitry has no idea what has Anastasia so excited.

“Mitya, this is Julia,” Anastasia introduces with another grin. 

“The husband,” the woman, Julia, comments with a grin. Dmitry blinks at her, at a loss for words, before he looks down at Anastasia. Her innocent yet radiant smile only screams of,  _ please, play along. _ “Anya was telling me you both eloped all the way from Ekaterinburg?”

“Yes! Isn’t it romantic?” She grabs his arm in the process, leaning against him. Dmitry decides that he can let her do whatever the hell she’s doing for a little while longer. “My father always thought his family was below us, but Mitya wouldn’t take no for an answer. So here we are now, looking for an honest job.”

“I can cook,” he finds himself adding, though he has no idea where the words are coming from. “I used to cook for some aristocrats, before…”

Before the Revolution. Before I was dismissed and they were all murdered a few hours later. Before I found the only one still alive and vowed to protect her, although she doesn’t know it.

“That’s really sweet,” Julia replies. She seems to mean it. “As I was telling Anya, I own an inn a few streets away from here. My husband used to help me run it, but that was before the war…” Before he died, Dmitry guesses. “You can have the room next to the kitchen, if you’re hardworking. We don’t have much, but you will get paid for the work.”

“Isn’t it wonderful, Mitya?” Anastasia asks, tugging on his arm. The weight of her against his side is oddly fitting. “I told you we would find honest jobs quickly enough!”

Yes, full of resources and surprises, that one definitely is. That is when Dmitry notices the white fabric draped over her arm, and he tugs at it. A mistakes, if the way she defensively keeps it out of reach from his dirty fingers is anything to go by. “Looks like you found something else too, Nastya.”

Her cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink, as if caught with her hand in the cookie jar, before she shows the fabric to him. It turns out to be a shirt, with a nice collar and red embroideries. Only then does he remembers she’s been going around for over a week wearing his shirt and the skirt he stole for her. As much as it upsets him that she would waste money so freely, she couldn’t exactly keep going without clothes of her own. And they both need a good wash too, while they’re at it.

“That’s settled then,” Julia concludes, clapping her hands together. “Come, I will show you to the inn.”

The inn is nothing more than a big house whose rooms have been turned into bedrooms for the guests, with the attic for the owners and, as promised, a small room next to the kitchen for them. The bed is small, but there isn’t enough space between it and the opposite wall for Dmitry to lie down, so they will have to share. Which will be uncomfortable, to say the least, but it is not as if Anastasia didn’t already spend an entire week cuddling him for comfort anyway. They will manage.

She sighs happily, hands on her hips, as she takes in the kitchen. Dmitry almost wants to scoff at that. Her hands are fragile and delicate, without a single callus to disturb the perfectly smooth skin. She has an aristocrat’s hands, hands that haven’t seen a day of hard work in their life, and yet she seems at peace with the idea of working tirelessly in this place. Dmitry wonders how long it will take her before her body crumbles from exhaustion.

Softly, he comes to stand behind her, and puts a hand on her hip. She startles, just a little. 

“I thought the idea of us together was gross?” he teases her.

She laughs through her nose. “Look at us. We could barely pass for cousins, let alone siblings. Nobody would have believed it.”  _ Yes, because you have the most famous eyes in all of Russia, _ he wants to reply but doesn’t. She goes on, “And isn’t it fun to play pretend?”

There is an edge to her voice, teasing, amused, that reminds him of the little plays she and Maria used to write together, and perform in front of their family. It was their only source of entertainment during all of those months of house arrest. He can let her have this, this game of acting and pretending. She seems to be good at it, and he will just need to follow her lead.

“Dima,” he whispers into her ear instead of replying to her question.

“Wh–what?”

“I go by Dima, not Mitya.”

He steps away just then, going back to their room so he can drop his things. Not looking back at her, he misses the way her cheeks turned a deep shade of crimson, or how her body trembles with a shiver, or how she nibbles on her bottom lip. He misses it all, and perhaps it is for the best.

 

…

 

Life becomes a routine of sorts. The inn, despite its ten small bedrooms, is quite popular due to its proximity to the river bank and factories, and its cheap lunch menu. Anastasia helps Julia with the cleaning and the waitressing, while Dmitry spends hours in the kitchen, cooking the stroganov and blinis from dawn till dusk. He is always sweating, wiping at his forehead before the sweat burns his eyes, and grateful that Julia lets him take a bath of cold water each night. At least it prevents Anastasia from kicking him to the far edge of the bed because he’s sticky and smelly.

The skin of her hands cracked and bled the first time she washed the bed linen, raw and tender for a few days after that. Still, she’s a brave one, his Grand Duchess. Never complained, not even when her fingers were red and sore, not even when she was exhausted from running around all day long. Small calluses have appeared on her fingertips and the palms of her hands now, and she no longer drops the linen basket when she balances it on her hip. Seventeen, and so brave, so fierce.

She counts their roubles every night, and asks him how much a ticket is. Every night, his answer is the same, and she makes a sucking noise with her mouth before gathering the coins and putting them back in their wallet. 

And, in all of that, nobody has once questioned the fact that they are married and in love. They do have a bad habit of bickering like an old married couple, after all, which helps keeping up with appearances. It leads to a lot of screaming behind closed door, and Anastasia furiously scrubbing pans or linens or tables so she will not take it out on him. Which, according to Julia, is adorable. But Julia is a widow who has very little pleasures in life, so Dmitry takes her opinion with a grain of salt.

Still even Dmitry, as grumpy as he is about the entire eloping situation, has to admit they made the small room their own. Anastasia found a small mirror to put on the wall, to help her pin her ever-growing hair up every morning. Small icons are glued to the wall next to the mirror – they go to church every Sunday and Anastasia mumbles her prayers before bed without a fault. Not even amnesia could take the Tsarina’s pious regiment away from her daughter, Dmitry remarks with a touch of irony. 

They bought her a new pair of boots, the light brown leather a clear upgrade from the slippers she wore until then, as well as a new skirt and a second blouse. Dmitry refused new clothes for himself, but accepted the cap and fingerless gloves Anastasia bought for him at the market. Necessary purchases that set their departure back a week at least, much to his discontent. 

Though Dmitry has to admit, life isn’t so bad here. Sure he would probably be making double if he worked at the factory – Julia was not lying about the pay – but they have a roof above their heads, hot meals three times a day and meat once a week. After the horrors of Ekaterinburg, Dmitry finds himself lucky. Even more so when he sees the difference the past few weeks have had on Anastasia. 

A proper diet allowed for more meat on her bones, for her skin and hair to shine again. He was worried for a moment there, how old and ashen she looked despite her being seventeen. She still looks older than her age, but she is also glowing now. If it weren’t for the bags under her eyes from too many nights haunted by terrible dreams, she would look like happiness turned woman. Smiling more, and like she means it. It only makes her all the more beautiful. 

Like tonight, setting sun turning her hair into golden fire as she sits on their bed. Dmitry lies down behind her, on his side, so she leans against him as she counts their money. It is all so peaceful and domestic that he could fall asleep here and there. No meals to cook tonight as it is his day off, nothing but to bask in the last summer sun and the smell of Nastya’s clean skin. 

“I think we have it,” she says, playing with two roubles. 

Dmitry leans on his elbow to look at the money above her knee. “What do you mean?”

“The train tickets. We can buy them now.”

“Thanks fuck for that,” he breathes out as he falls back down against the pillow. Her huff of indignation at his swearing makes him smirk. “I will go to the station first thing tomorrow.”

“And off to Petersburg we go.”

“Off to Moscow we go,” he corrects. “And Petersburg from there.”

She huffs again, gathering the coins in her hands before she puts them back in the wallet and puts it on the floor. Still cross-legged, she turns around to face him. Dmitry raises an eyebrow, as if pressing her to say whatever is on the tip of her tongue. 

“Why are you doing this?” she asks softly. He must look confused, for she adds, “Why are you helping me so much?”

He sighs, and rubs his face with one hand. “Because that’s what a good man would do, and I like to entertain the stupid notion than I am one.”

Her hand comes to brush his hair away from his face. It’s growing ridiculously long now, but he can’t be bothered to cut it. And if it means Nastya doing whatever she is doing now – he can only stare, his heart beating painfully against his ribcage – then he will never see a barber ever again. 

“You are. A good man, that is.”

“Careful there, Anya. It almost sounds like a compliment.”

She sighs, but it’s more amused than frustrated. “You’re right. You’re a terrible person and I hate you.”

“Called it,” he teases.

He wants to keep bantering with her – soft and peaceful like that, it adds a new layer to their arguments – but she catches him off guard when instead she leans down to kiss his cheek. For a second, he entertains the idea of turning his head and capturing her lips. It would be so easy, to grab her face and pull her close, to move until she’s sitting on top of him, legs caging his hips. He would deepen the kiss and she would moan against his mouth, and God knows what would happen next. 

One second is all Dmitry needs before he erases the fantasy from his mind. Instead, he lets Anastasia lie down by his side, her back to him, lets her manhandle him until his arms are wrapped around her waist and her back is to his chest. He shifts his hips away from her, lest she feels the effect she has on him. 

It is only a matter of minutes until her breath evens out into quiet snores. He waits a moment longer before he kisses her shoulder. “You have no idea what I would do for you,” he whispers against her skin, the thought as terrifying as it is exhilarating. 

How Dmitry falls asleep is nothing short of a miracle, and he wakes up to the sun on his face. It takes him several moments of confusion before he understands why this is out of the ordinary. Anastasia’s nightmares didn’t wake him up, not once. She is now standing in front of the mirror, peeling the icons from the wall one by one as she hums to herself. Dmitry smiles at the sight, and hugs the pillow a little closer. She keeps humming as she pulls her hair up, looking this and that way as she ponders on the updo to adopt.

“Keep it loose,” he tells her, and smirks when she jumps in surprise.

Her hair falls back as she puts her closed fists on her hips and huffs. “I’m not a child anymore, my hair needs to be up.”

“Says who?”

“Says… I don’t know. It’s just the way it is.” 

She’s glaring at him through the mirror, and Dmitry’s grin widens. “You’re prettier with your hair loose, though.”

“I very much don’t care what you think,” she answers in a harsh tone, but the pink of her cheeks tells another story. “Weren’t you supposed to go to the station anyway?”

Dmitry rolls his eyes even as he forces himself into a sitting position, before he raises his arms above his head to stretch. A bone pops loudly somewhere in his back, making him wince and Anastasia shudder. He quickly pulls on his clothes after that, and slips on his boots before he snatches the wallet from the floor. The coins jingle happily as he drops it in the pocket of his coat.

“I’ll be back soon. Make sure you’ve packed all your things.”

“Yes, mama,” she shoots back sarcastically.

Dmitry rolls his eyes, before he leaves their bedroom. He grabs a small loaf of bread as he gets out of the inn and into the cold morning air. Late September and winter is already settling down; Dmitry truly hates Siberia, and will not miss it in the least. Which is probably why he walks as fast as he can to the train station, thrumming with a weird kind of energy. The train journey will be a long one, but it will bring him closer to Petersburg and it is all that matters.

The man at the counter tells him a train is leaving in three hours, then takes his money and gives Dmitry two small tickets in exchange. He pockets them, thanks the man, then goes back the way he came from. There is a skip to his every step that speaks of freedom and anticipation, the same feelings he finds in Anastasia’s eyes when he walks through the entrance door.

“I’ve got them!” he exclaims, and she happily yelps in reply. Perhaps because they are both so excited, he grabs her by the waist and lifts her, twirling her around and laughing at the scream of surprise that escapes her lips. When he puts her back down, his arms linger around her waist for a while longer, and she pushes her hair back from her face, her eyes not leaving his.

She’s kept her hair loose but for one braid going from one side of her head to the other, and it looks so lovely on her that it takes Dmitry’s breath away. Or perhaps it is her close proximity. Or something else altogether.

“So it is official, then.”

They startle away from each other at Julia’s entrance. Dmitry shakes his head slightly, before the both of them apologise to the woman who has been so good to them all those weeks. She waves them off, for she knew their staying was only temporary, and invites them to come back whenever – there will always be work for them here, if things don’t work out the way they should in Petersburg. As kind and generous as the offer is, Dmitry would rather not come back to Siberia, but he doesn’t voice the thought. Not when Julia has done so much for them.

“I have a departure gift,” she tells them, and hands out the basket hanging on her arm. 

Curious, Anastasia takes it and lifts the clothe to reveal a dozen vatrushkas, golden and warm, and two bottles of milk. Dmitry’s mouth waters, even with the knowledge that it must have cost Julia a week’s worth of ration tickets. Anastasia must come to the same conclusion, for she hugs the woman and whispers many a word of kindness. Her eyes are a bit misty when she takes a step back and lets Dmitry says his goodbyes. His hug is less heartfelt, maybe, but he has never been good with farwells, or feelings of any kind.

“We will miss your blinis,” Julia tells him. She squeezes his arm, and whispers, “Take care of her. She deserves the world.”

“I know. Thank you, for everything.”

Anastasia hugs the basket to her chest, so Dmitry takes his satchel and their small suitcase, making sure they haven’t forgotten anything. Not that they owe much to begin with, but you never know. He then puts his hand in his pocket, the hard and cold feeling of the diamonds against his fingertips enough to reassure him.

“Let us go then, Nastya.”

She grins at him, even more so when he offers her his arm. Off they go, with last goodbyes for Julia, waving until they turn around the corner. Anastasia is skipping, little jumpy steps that make him chuckle, all the way to the train station. He tells her something about using her energy now, for they will be sitting on their butts for quite a long time, but she doesn’t seem to mind or care. And her good mood is infectious, Dmitry unable to stop smiling even if he had to.

He even laughs out loud when Anastasia plops down in her seat and immediately takes a worn copy of Anna Karenina out of her pocket. “There’s more to literature than Tolstoy, you know?” he tells her. She only pokes her tongue out in reply, before settling more comfortably in her seat.

They do have more than a full day of train in front of them, after all, and Dmitry wasn’t as smart as her when it comes to entertainment. He’s fine with catching up on missing hours of sleep, napping all through the afternoon. They eat some of the vatrushkas for dinner, before Anastasia decides to read to him out loud. The couple sitting opposite them keeps smiling and exchanging meaningful glances.

Dmitry wonders what they are seeing – two teenagers, barely adults, sharing a train journey to Moscow, sharing a meal and a book. Anastasia starts yawning after a while and, without even asking his opinion, she raises his arm so she can lie down on the seat with her head in his lap, her coat a makeshift blanket atop her. Dmitry rolls his eyes at her nerve, but soon he falls asleep too, with his fingers in her hair and, perhaps, his heart held close to her chest.

Long gone are the forests of the Ural when Dmitry opens his eyes again. He doesn’t know exactly where they are, but finds that he doesn’t mind. At least they know where they are going, which is better than the last two trains they took, one to Tobolsk and the other to Ekaterinburg.

Anastasia is awake already, but still lying down and using him as her personal pillow. She holds her book above her head, moving it to the side so she can smile at him before she focuses back on the words. As if hearing his thoughts, she starts reading out loud just then, allowing Dmitry to slip in and out of light slumber for the next hour or so. His stomach protests soon enough, and they have more of the vatrushkas and some of the milk. Anastasia then declares that she needs stretching, and leaves their carriage so she can walk up and down the train’s corridor. 

Dmitry is anxiously peaking at her through the window when the woman sharing their carriage speaks up. “You too make such a lovely pair.”

Dmitry blinks at her. Both she and her husband look old enough to have been married longer than Dmitry has been alive, and there is a kindness to her eyes that bring back old, fond memories of his own mother. 

“She’s lovely. Me, not so much,” he can’t help but answer teasingly, though his words are laced with insecurities. 

The woman makes a clicking noise with her tongue and shakes her head. “No, you two together, young man. This kind of loyalty and adoration is rare these days. It’s refreshing to see.”

“Not here, Katyusha,” her husband says in a gruff voice. 

Dmitry raises an eyebrow at the implications behind such a short interaction. Could this couple be royalists, complaining about the new order? If that is the case, Dmitry hopes against hope they didn’t get a good look at Anastasia. She doesn’t look much like the plump girl in the white dress from the pictures, these days, but there is no denying her strawberry blonde hair and her blue eyes. The blue eyes she shared with her father, and so many other royals. Those treacherous blue eyes. 

“I guess we’re just lucky we found each other,” he mumbles before he grabs the book Nastya abandoned by his side. 

He knows his letters, but isn’t a skilled reader. It takes him more time than it would do her to get through a sentence, let alone a paragraph, but Dmitry doesn’t let it deter him. They still have a few more hours to go after all. Maybe he’ll manage to finish a chapter, if he’s lucky. 

Anastasia comes back a while later, her cheeks pink, and plops down by his side. She leans an elbow against the window, looking out at the landscape in uncharacteristic silence. Dmitry hesitates, just for a second, before he shrugs to himself and lies down, mirroring her previous actions of using her as a pillow. 

Where the bench seat didn’t cause her an issue, it is too small for his lanky body and so he has to propel his feet on the wall. Anastasia snorts through her nose at his awkward new position, but doesn’t comment. Even still gazing out the window, she puts a hand on his head. Her fingers play with his hair, featherlike touches that make his reading slower still. As if he were able to access Tolstoy’s writing in the first place. 

They arrive in Moscow in the early afternoon, and Dmitry buys their tickets to Petersburg before he does anything else. The next train is only in the morning, which isn’t exactly ideal. They can barely afford a few more meals; proper lodging is out of the question. Anastasia sighs but doesn’t complain, instead shrugging her acceptance of their fate. 

“We can survive a night on a bench, Dima,” she assures. Then, with a grin, “Now come! I’ve always wanted to see the Kremlin!”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know it in my bones!”

Dmitry is hesitant at the idea of bringing Anastasia so close to the people who, as far as he can tell, are responsible for her family’s murder. The wrong eyes falling on her could lead to deadly consequences. But Nastya, in all her exuberant energy, doesn’t care much about such trivial things. She grabs his hand and pulls him out of the train station, and Dmitry lets her take the lead. As if he could deny her anything, at this point. 

She makes for quite a sharp contrast with the grumpy and grumbling moscovitz, getting herself more than one bewildered look with the way she runs around and laughs at everything. Her smile is infectious and, once Dmitry has made sure her cap hides most of her face, he finds himself grinning with her. 

They visit the Red Square, stopping at St Basil so she can offer her prayers and lit a few candles – no money to buy new icons, sadly. It doesn’t deter her, amazed and gleeful at everything she sees. When they finally stop on a bench, in a park near the train station, Dmitry is breathless and his legs sore. It was a good day. A day he hasn’t had in a very long while. 

“And I will eat blinis in bed all day long! And macarons imported from Paris, of course.”

“Are your plans once you get rich to also get fat?” he laughs. “And how do you suggest we make that much money?”

“Oh, you should scam some rich, old lady. Obviously.”

“How about you scam an old man instead?” He laughs even louder at the face she makes. “Oh I see, I get to do the dirty work.”

“Only because I asked so nicely,” she replies, batting her eyelashes a little too much for it to look natural. 

Only then does Dmitry realise how close they are. She’s sitting with her legs across his lap, leaning against his shoulder, his arm around her, so they can share body warmth as the temperatures slowly start to drop. Her breath fans on his face in hot puffs of air, and he can see the grey undertones in her eyes from there. 

He raises a hand to cup her cheek, still playing along with an overdramatic voice. “For you, I’d do anything, my dear.”

A mistake. Because her skin is soft and warm, because he can feel her pulse under his fingertips and his eyes are drawn to her lips. She gasps wordlessly, as if attuned to his thoughts, his desires. Dmitry blinks, waiting for her to push him away. She doesn’t. Instead her lips twitch into a barely-there smile, as tempting as it is inviting. 

He leans in closer, to test the waters; she doesn’t move. “Dima…” she whispers, his nickname like velvet on her tongue, like coming back home after a day in the cold. 

_ The Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanova wants you to kiss her, Dima. _ And so he will. 

His thumb brushes against her chin, caresses the corner of her mouth, which parts into a small gasp. Her eyelashes flutter before she closes her eyes and tilts her head up, as if waiting for him to close the distance between them. In the corner of his mind, a little voice reminds him who it is in his arms; what could happen to a street rat who takes what isn’t his. Because Anastasia is a Duchess, even if she doesn’t remember it. A Tsar’s daughter, and everything that comes with it. She never would look at him twice, if she were still in her palace and he were still working for her family.

Dmitry tells the little voice to shut up. Because the Tsar is long gone, the palace isn’t hers anymore, and Anastasia wants to kiss him. And he’s never been one to deny a girl’s wish to kiss him, especially not when said girl looks so lovely and maddening and perfect at the same time. He would be the mad one, not to kiss her.

He leans forward, his nose brushing against hers.

“Well, well, well. Look what we have here.” Anastasia startles with a little cry, her forehead knocking into his in her haste to lean back. Four men, around their age, walk toward their bench. The first one, the one who talked, has his hands in his pockets and a dangerous smile on his lips. Dmitry knows better than to trust men like that. “Oh, by all means, keep going. It was quite the show, wasn’t it, lads?”

The others laugh grimly. There is no subtle way to put himself between them and Anastasia without starting a fight, yet Dmitry slowly grabs her legs so she no longer sits halfway on top of him, just in case. He dares a glance her way, and almost smirks at the murderous glare she offers the other man, obviously upset to have been interrupted. A feeling Dmitry shares, even if his survival instincts kicked in fast; this isn’t just about the kiss, he knows it all too well.

“What do you want?” he asks, proud of how harsh and unwavering his voice is.

The man still laughs at him, though. “Look at that! Bumpkin’s got teeth!” He puts his feet on the bench next to Dmitry, and leans forward into his private space. “Makes it to the city and thinks he’s all that. Even got himself a pretty girl and everything.”

“Leave her alone,” Dmitry replies between clenched teeth. His palms hurt from digging his nails into them not to do anything reckless, his muscles tense from forcing himself to stay still. They better not touch one hair on Anastasia’s head, though, otherwise all hell will break loose.

That’s without taking Anastasia’s tongue into account, of course. “Not like  _ you _ could get a pretty girl even if you tried.”

The man turns to his friends to laugh, then everything happens fast. He tries to grab Anya by her coat, but Dmitry sees it coming, his fist flying before his brain even reacts. It’s only a matter of seconds before he’s on his feet, dodging punches and throwing a few of his own. He can hear Anya grunting and screaming by his side, because of course she would fight too. She hits one guy who aimed for his temple, before she goes back to kicking another one in the knee, and he saves her by catching one who tries to grab her from behind.

Dmitry doesn’t know how long they fight, minutes or hours, adrenaline running through his veins despite the exhaustion in his bones and the blood down his face. He knocks one out cold and is about to defeat another one, when Anya comes screaming at him. She has a large stick in her hands and hits the guy with it, yelling like an animal. They all look at her like she’s crazy, stepping back when she hits one on the shoulder. They all run away, and she runs after them.

“That’s all you got?” she yells at them. “Come back here and I’ll…”

Dmitry grabs her by the waist before she can do anything reckless. Anything  _ more _ reckless. “Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he tells her, with a laugh in his voice. She kicks and fusses a little, before dropping the stick and folding her arms on her chest. “Didn’t know you had that in you,” he comments, still amused.

She glares at him. “I can defend myself.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed,” he grins. When she throws him an unimpressed glare, he goes on, “I’ve learnt not to underestimate you. But this? Still impressive.”

She mellows, just a little, and offers him a smile. Their moment has gone, but Dmitry drops a kiss on her forehead. Even in the darkness of the night, he notices her cheeks turning red, yet elects not to mention it. Instead, he throws an arm around her shoulders and guides her away from the man still passed out at their feet.

“Let’s find another bench?” she asks softly.

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

Turns out the train station doesn’t close at night, so they do find a bench inside, away from the wind if not the cold. Much like last night, she lies down with her head in his lap and falls asleep in a matter of seconds. He will have to ask her about this, because it’s been a few months now and it’s still as impressive as it was the first time. He has no idea how someone plagued with so many nightmares can fall asleep so quickly, and yet.

Sleep evades him for a long while and, when Dmitry manages to fall asleep, it is never restful. He jerks awake every time he hears some noise, afraid to be ambushed again, and barely manages to get a full hour of sleep in before the station starts filling with people and the sun is up. He rubs his eyes, struggling to keep them open for more than a few seconds, and smile at Nastya when she rubs his arms in a comforting manner.

“Come. You’ll sleep on the train.”

That he does, passing out the moment they find seats in an empty carriage. Anastasia gives him her coat to use as a pillow, and sits on the seat opposite him. He almost wants to protest, if only because he would rather be sleeping in her lap, but his eyes close before he can even complain about the distance she put between them.

Dmitry still feels like crap by the time the train slows into the station, but his exhaustion is soon forgotten when the train drive announces, “Leningrad! Everyone gets off! Leningrad!”

_ They can call it Leningrad, it will always be Petersburg, _ he thinks, and his body soon buzzes with excitement and anxieties. He grabs their suitcase, and he grabs Anastasia’s hand, and pulls her along with a breathless laughter. She follows, letting go of his hand to hug his arm instead, looking up at him through her lashes.

“How long?” she asks softly.

“Nine years,” he replies. And then, after a pause, “Too long.”

She smiles, and it’s kind, loving. His heart misses a beat, even more so when she says, “Show it to me. Show me everything.”

And so, with a grin, he does. They start with the Church of the Saviour on Blood, of course, if only because he wants to see the look of wonder in her eyes. But also to show her the park next to it, when his mother would bring him as a wee child before she got sick. He tells her about playing in the grass with other children, and how she would read to him while he sat in her lap.

It’s easy from there, all the canals and the back alleys, memories coming back to him at the corner of a street. Here, he stole his first loaf of bread. There, he lost a tooth during a fight with another boy, taller and stronger than he was. Here, the office where his father had secret meetings with other anarchists. There, looking at the sunset on the city on a beautiful summer night. There, his first kiss, nine and confused. Here, his first time winning a fight. And here, and here, and there.

He is so lost in his own head, in his own past, that he doesn’t stop until they’ve reached the Yusupov Palace. Breathless, exhausted, he still find the strength to climb on a bench and pull Anastasia up with him. She smiles at him, and laughs when he grabs her shoulders so she will look away from him, her chest to his back. His arms wrap around her waist of their own accord, his chin on top of her head.

“And look at this sunset, everything turning to gold. That’s what I love most about Petersburg. When you have the sun and quite the view.”

His tone has a dreamlike edge to it, like he can’t believe it himself. Truth be told, he never thought he would ever be back. Not after Tsarskoye Selo, not after the Revolution and being sent to Siberia. He thought he would die over there with everyone else, and accepted his fate. Never got to say goodbye to his father, or to his city. But today, at least, he got one of them back.

“It’s beautiful,” Anastasia sighs as she leans against his chest, her head on his shoulder. She doesn’t move for a long time, but it’s fine with him. With the sun kissing his face and Nastya in his arms, he could stay like this for hours.

But they have to, eventually, if only because they need to find somewhere to spend the night. Other plans will have to wait until tomorrow, but Dmitry would like not to spend two nights in a row on a bench, thank you very much. So he lets go of Anastasia and jumps back on the ground, offering his hand to her so she can go down too. She looks at his hand, then into his eyes again, the wheels in her head turning.

Before he knows it, she grabs him by the collar of his shirt. Before he knows it, she’s kissing him. He gasps into her mouth, before his arms find her waist against, taking a step closer. With her standing on the bench, the angle is all wrong and awkward, not that neither of them seems to mind. Her hands cup his jaw, tips of her fingers in his hair, so she can tilt his head and deepen the kiss. He groans into her mouth, pulls her closer until she’s on the edge of the bench, her body pressed against his.

She grins against his lips when they come out for air, and he lifts her off the bench. Her arms on his shoulders, he carries her for a second kiss, and another, and another, until it turns messy from all the smiling and the giggling, until he has no other choice but to put her down again. With her feet on the ground, she pushes her hair away from her face. Her lips are red and swollen, her eyes sparkling in the sunset light, and she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life.

He kisses her nose, and she laughs. Happy, carefree. It’s all he’s ever wanted for her, and he can’t believe he’s the lucky bastard who gave that to her. If only for a few moments of unadulterated happiness, but he made it happen.

“We need to find some place to stay the night.”

Only when she raises an eyebrow does Dmitry understand what a bad timing he had, his cheek burning with embarrassment. Anastasia simply laughs it off, which only slightly helps with his shameful thoughts. He managed to share a bed with her for three months and nothing happened; one kiss isn’t going to suddenly change anything.

“Bold,” she tease. “But yes, we should. I’d rather not sleep on a bench two nights in a row.”

Dmitry nods, before putting his hands on his hips to look around him. He assesses different possibilities now, looking down the canal, and so misses the way Anastasia turns to the building behind them. Misses the way her eyes go a little wider, almost lost.

“What is this?” she asks, and it is her voice sounding a little off that has Dmitry reacting.

He turns around, if only to frown. “Yusupov Palace,” he replies. “Some asshole royal guy lived here, I think. They said… They said that’s where Rasputin was murdered.”

If the name triggers Anastasia’s memories, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she takes a step closer, one hand on her heart. The palace’s doors and windows are barricaded, probably to keep people like them out, and so it lacks its previous beauty and prestige. Not that Anastasia seems to care, as if lost in her own mind. 

“I’ve been here before,” she whispers, more to herself than anything. “There was a play, everyone was so beautifully dressed…”

He moves closer, puts a hand on her lower back. His face must show his concern, dread filling his stomach. If she remembers this, what else will eventually come back to her? “Go on,” he still manages to say.

“I was too young to drink, but I stole a sip from Papa’s champagne. I thought he would be upset, but he just laughed and…” Her sentence ends in a gasp, before she blinks twice and looks up at him. Confusion and turmoil dance in her eyes. “What does this mean?”

“I don’t know,” he lies. “Let’s see what’s still inside.”

They have to rip two planks of wood so they can sneak through a window. Everything inside is dusty and dirty, exactly what you would imagine to happen to a palace if its inhabitants had to leave quickly and then everyone and their brother ransacked the place. The furniture, when not broken, is in a pitiful state, with the corpse of a piano in the middle of one room. Everything of value is long gone, most paintings slashed by knives and mirrors broken. It looks as if they were not the first to think of squatting the place, though, so they will have to be careful about this. Better avoid the Bolsheviks finding them here.

The upstair rooms are not in any better shape but, after moving a few things around, Nastya and he manage to get a couch and a few sofa pillows into one room. As far as makeshift bed go, there could be worse. Once they’ve barred the door with a heavy drawer – just in case – Nastya sits on the pillows with a sigh. She raises her arms above her head to stretch, before she grabs his satchel and takes out the last of their vatrushkas.

“You can have it, I’m not hungry,” he tells her with a sigh, before he sits in the couch. It’s hard and uncomfortable, but still better than a bench.

“You haven’t eaten all day.”

Dmitry just shrugs. “I’m used to going to bed with an empty stomach, don’t worry.”

She stares at him for a moment too long, before she looks down at the pastry and messily rips it in two. She hands him one half, her stare hardening when he refuses to take it, stubbornly forcing it on him. Dmitry heaves a sigh, and complies.

“You won’t ever go to bed with an empty stomach again,” she promises, and he almost wants to believe her.

 

…

 

It takes them two full weeks to find their footing. Despite Anastasia’s promise, they go to bed without food more than once before Dmitry manages to find a job as a cook in some crappy restaurant. It doesn’t last, and the owner pays him less than he said before firing Dmitry. He looks for a job in the factories after that, while Anastasia is given a broom and told to clean the streets. Winter is slowly setting over Petersburg, which means they use all their money to buy her woolen socks, gloves and a scarf, and even then she gets sick. But coughing her lungs out doesn’t deter her from going to work every day, while Dmitry spent his in a grim, dirty factory, building weapons for an order he hates with his entire being.

Neither of them complain, though, even when they have to leave the Palace in the middle of the night after hearing footsteps downstairs. They only come back the following evening, when they are certain the building is empty, and barricade themselves a little bit more that night, just in case.

It’s far from the luxurious life Anastasia had dreamt of all those weeks ago – they sure as hell can’t afford pastries, let alone French macarons – but at least it’s a life. At least they have food, and a home, and each other. Sometimes, Dmitry likes to believe it is more than enough.

But there are those nights when Nastya wakes up screaming and crying, and those moments when she gets lost in the Palace, mumbling to herself about balls, and plays, and chocolate on white gloves. And Dmitry is scared.

Scared for her, and how painful it all must be. Her tears, hot and heavy on her cheeks, are like knives into Dmitry’s heart when he wipes them away every night, her fingers tightening around the fabric of his shirt. He comforts her until she falls back asleep, caressing her hair and whispering kind words into her ear. He wishes he remembered the lullabies his mother used to sing to him, for perhaps they would help.

Scared for himself, too. Her nightmares are even more frequent and violent now, and she had another episode when they walked in front of the Summer Palace once – memories of her last ball there, the one they threw before the Dowager Empress left the country. Dmitry is terrified of her remembering her past, as awful as it sounds. He is terrified that, once Anastasia remembers who she is, she will want nothing to do with him. And losing her, well. He isn’t sure he could take it.

They haven’t kissed since that one time in front of the Palace, and Dmitry forces himself not to read too much into it. He fails, for the most part.

It’s with some kind of sick, selfish relief that Dmitry learns her aunt Olga left the country as soon as the Tsar’s death was announced. At least now he doesn’t have to tell Anastasia who she really is, before pushing her into the arms of a woman she hasn’t seen in years. Still, Dmitry knows it isn’t right, that she still has living relatives out there. But when “out there” means “out of Russia,” it’s a problem in itself. He’s only nineteen, after all; he has no idea how to get out of this goddamn country, let alone get the right papers for that.

Everything changes, though, on a Sunday morning. It’s early December, which means there is snow everywhere to make their trek to church more challenging. Only a very few number of them are still opened, when the Bolsheviks are closing them left and right, but Anastasia insists on going every week, weather be damned. She never looks more like her mother than when she shrugs on her coat and puts a shawl around her head, ready for church. A force to reckon with.

They’re turning around a corner into a back alley, the way they do every week, when a gasp escapes her. Dmitry is quick to pull her away, putting her between himself and the wall, hiding her from sight.

“Was that…” she starts, but doesn’t have the will to finish her question. He can feel her heart drumming against his chest, and he pulls her closer to him with a hand against her head.

“Bolshevik execution,” he confirms. “Let’s go the other way around.”

“We can’t,” she exclaims, a little too loudly for his taste. She grabs the lapels of his coat and shakes, forcing him to look down into her eyes. “I think… Dima, I think I know this man.”

His jaw clenches as he forces himself to swallow back a sigh. “Don’t be silly, Nastya. We don’t know anyone in this city.”

“I think I do. From… before.”

He closes his eyes, head tilted back, and groans. Of all the times for her memory to come back to her, it had to be now? With one man in front of a firing squad? Dmitry curses under his breath, before he chances a glance into the back alley. Thankfully for them, the officer is still reading a list of crimes to the man, and looking like he’s nowhere near done, which. That’s impressive in itself, really. Anastasia takes a peek too, and he hears her whispering, “Oh Vlad…” so softly he thinks he’s made it up at first.

But that’s it, then. They will have to save this man, or die trying, because Anastasia has made her mind about it. If they get out of this alive, he will have to learn to say no to her. If not… Well, he was right in thinking she would be the death of him, then.

“Follow my lead,” he whispers to her, looking through his pockets. “Don’t freak out.”

“What…” He doesn’t let her finish, grabbing her by the hair and putting his pocket knife against her pretty throat. She gasps, her entire body shivering with fear, but follows him as he pulls her into the back alley.

“Let him go!” he yells, all eyes falling on him. “Let him go or I kill her!”

Nastya gasps again when he pulls on her hair, just to make sure she’s looking up and nobody can see the colour of her eyes. Better not have them believe she’s exactly who she looks like. The officer in charge looks confused, taking a step toward him and raising his hands. “Come on, comrade. Let’s not do anything irrational here.”

He presses the knife a little bit more into Anastasia’s throat, careful not to break the skin, and tightens his hold on her. “I’m serious! Let him go now, before it’s too late.”

The Bolsheviks are now sharing looks and whispering between them. Bastards they may be, but nobody wants an innocent girl’s death on their conscience. Even the officer seems to be hesitant. The man she called Vlad, even with his hands bounded and a bag above his head, finds a way to chime in, “Be nice little comrades and save the lady, would you?”

Dmitry forces himself not to smirk, not to break out of character. He takes a step forward, and pleasure in seeing them all take a step back. A bunch of cowards, all of them. Nothing but cowards following orders. They make it easy. Too easy.

“Do you trust me?” he whispers to Anastasia.

“Always,” she replies.

He pushes her toward one man just then, with enough strength to have her falling into his arms and creating a domino effect among the men. It’s enough to create chaos, weapons dropping in fear of hurting her in the process. Dmitry acts fast, yelling for the man to run before he punches the officer in the face thanks to the momentum his diversion created. Vlad starts running blindly, and Dmitry jumps over a pile of boxes to follow him out of the back alley. He grabs the man by the arm, shoving him into another little street and shoving the bag off his head. He slices the cords around his wrists next, and grins at the older man.

“You… are crazy.”

“Thanks,” Dmitry beams. “We don’t have much time before they follow, hurry up.”

It takes them twice as long as it usually would to go back to the Palace, if only because Dmitry goes through all the back alleys and runs in circles once or twice, just in case. He’s looking above his shoulder so much that he doesn’t even find the time to worry about Anastasia until he’s sneaking back into the Palace and breathing properly again.

She’s already there, standing up from the couch where she was sitting and throwing herself into his arms. He holds on to her, whispering apologies into her hair, before he takes a step back. Immediately, he grabs her chin and tilts her head up to look at her throat. There is a red line branded into her skin, but no blood, and Dmitry sighs in relief. At least he didn’t cut her, even if he put her in danger.

“Are you all right? Did they do anything to you? What happened?”

“I’m fine,” she sighs, like she wants to be mad at him for worrying but also finds it endearing. “The officer really believed I was a victim here. Even offered to buy me tea, but I told him I needed to go to work and ran away.”

“Good. Good! Oh god, I’m so sorry.”

Only when he presses a kiss to her forehead does the man clear his throat, startling them both. Anastasia’s hands remain on his arms even when she turns to look at their new friends, who’s looking back at her like he’s seen a ghost. His mouth opens in surprise, his eyes big as tea saucers, and all Dmitry can do is make a slicing motion across his own throat and hope of the best.

“Ah, erh. Yes. Thank you both. For saving me.”

“You’re welcome,” Anastasia beams. “Would you like some tea?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, leaving the room to go to the kitchen. Or whatever passes as a kitchen in this place; at least the samovar still works. Dmitry watches her go, and jumps out of his skin when the other man grabs his arm.

“What do you think you’re doing, son?”

Dmitry blinks at him, then raises his head. “Saving your life, it seems. So be grateful.”

“Don’t think me stupid. I’ve known this girl since she was four. So tell me exactly how a street rat like you ends up with Anastasia Romanova following him around.”

“Well to be fair, I do most of the following,” Dmitry deflects.

“Answer me,” the man snaps. His voice goes down, his tone serious, and Dmitry takes a step back; nobody talked to him like this in years, not since his father, and it’s triggering something in him.

“I was a servant at the palace, before the Revolution. Followed the family into exile until they were all murdered. She survived, and she doesn’t remember anything, so you’re not going to ruin this for her, okay? She deserves better than an old man forcing her to remember.”

“You foolish boy.” A pause, and then, “All of them?”

Dmitry has heard the rumours. The Tsar’s death was made official only a few days after it happened, but nothing has been said about the rest of the family yet. Some believe them dead too, some still alive, either still imprisoned or in exile outside of the country, but all of it is gossips and whispers. Only a few know the truth, and don’t seem that eager to share.

“I heard the shots. Too many for just one man.”

The rattling sound of a cup against a saucer warns them of Anastasia’s return, and Dmitry offers the man a warning glance before smiling at her again. She smiles back and, if she looks confused at the heartbreak in their guest’s eyes, she doesn’t show it.

“Here’s your tea,” she tells him as she hands him the cup. “Oh, how rude of us not to introduce ourselves! I am Anya, and this is Dmitry. Very nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, my darling,” the man smiles, and it makes him look like a kind grandpa. “I am Vlad Popov.”

Anastasia, ever the proper hostess, entertains Vlad all morning long, until she makes it obvious that he is not just staying for lunch, but staying with them. Dmitry rolls his eyes a lot at the thought – he likes his routines, and a new flatmate disturbs all of them at once – but still he goes upstairs to try and find one more makeshift bed in the pile of rubbish that called itself furniture once upon a time. He finds a sofa with a broken leg in a small parlour, and uses a box to balance it, throwing an old blanket and a pillow on top of it. He even goes as far as checking the windows, and making sure there isn’t a draft, before he moves back to the room he shares with Nastya.

All her clothes are over one chair, which makes it easy for Dmitry to pick his things. That, and the fact that he still only owes two shirts and as many pairs of trousers. He shoves it all in his satchel, and grabs his work boots too, to put them all into another room. Nastya finds him when he’s pushing the couch from one room to the other, and glares at him even when he sends her an innocent smile.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you’re being stupid, is what it looks like,” she answers as she folds her arms on her chest. 

He wants to tell her she looks too much like her mother right now, so could she please stop frowning because it’s disturbing, but he remains silent instead. He pushes the couch a little more down the corridor, before he stops and turns around so he can both face her and sit on the armrest.

“Listen,” he starts, and forces himself not to sound too placating, because it would only manage to upset her even more. “It’s not just the two of us anymore and it’s fine, for the most part. But it means we can’t just… act the way we’ve been acting, because now someone else is there, and it’s just not right.”

She blinks, and it’s less confusion, more like she can’t believe what a fucking moron he is. “Oh my god, you’re not stupid, you’re actually serious!” She makes a face. “It’s even worse!”

“Nastya, don’t be…”

“So what if we sleep in the same room? We’ve done it for the past six months. Why is it different now?”

_ Because he knows who you are and what you are, and it’s just not right. _ “Because we’re not married!” Dmitry winces the moment the words are out, because that’s even worse that the real reason. Anastasia winces too, but he doesn’t want to know why. “And it’s not like we’re at Julia’s and we don’t have a choice, okay? We can’t just play pretend all our life, Anya.”

She looks away from him, arms still folded but gripping her sides now. The changes in her demeanour are small, but Dmitry knows her too well not to notice how she forces her chin not to tremble or how she sniffs to keep the tears at bay. He’s making her cry. He’s making her cry and he has no idea why, and he feels like such an asshole about it.

“Nastya…”

“No, it’s fine. You’re right. Let’s stop pretending anything more is going to happen between us. Because you made it clear it won’t.”

He opens his mouth uselessly, as a loss for words. Not that it matters, when Anastasia has already ran away from him. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose until it hurts, then goes back to moving the couch to another room. When he’s done, he falls on it and stares at the ceiling, wondering if he ever fucked up that badly before in his life.

The answer, quite obviously, is no.

She gives him the cold shoulder at dinner, after hours out of the Palace, not that he expected anything else from her. She spends hours speaking to Vlad instead, trading stories and little laughs between them like they are long-time friends. She seems to have forgotten her words from earlier, about knowing him from before, but it doesn’t stop her from creating an immediate bond with the man. And that, added to how the both of them ignore him all through the evening, has Dmitry seething until he’s had enough and decides to go to bed.

Unsurprisingly, he finds himself staring at the ceiling for hours, sleep evading him once more. He even hears Anastasia going to bed, the sound of her soft footsteps following by the creaking door she closes. It’s almost comforting, knowing she’s just across the corridor, even if a sharp reminder that she could be by his side instead.  _ Should _ be by his side.

He’s only closed his eyes for five minutes when her scream jolts him awake. He doesn’t even think, just runs for the door – he will have to remind her to bolt it, but he’s glad she’s forgotten. She’s trashing around, halfway between nightmare and awake, when he drops to his knees at her side. A hand on her shoulder startles her out of her sleep, and she falls into his arms, sobbing against his neck. She’s trembling so much he’s afraid she’s never going to stop, and so he holds on a little tighter.

“Shh, Nastya. I’m here. It’s okay, I’m here. I’m not leaving you again. I’m sorry. Calm down, I’m here now.”

Her sobs grow louder for a moment, before she hiccups twice then goes silence. Dmitry wonders for a moment if she had such a strong panic attack it made her pass out, but then she grabs his shirt at his back and snuggles closer into his neck. He heaves a relieved sigh, and kisses the side of her neck.

“You’re fine. You’re safe. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“There’s a light at the end of a hall. I can see it every night. Going down the stairs, and then the light and…” She shivers again. He holds on tight. “They told us everything would be fine, it was to protect us. But. But they shot him. They shot Papa and…” Her sentence ends in another sob. 

His neck is wet from her tears, his hand rubbing up and down her beck. The nightmares have never been this bad before, never so detailed. Guilt rises up in Dmitry’s throat, because of course it’s his fault. First time Nastya is sleeping alone and that happens? It’s too big of a coincidence, it has to be linked. All because he cared more about what some fake count has to say than about Anastasia’s wellbeing. What a moron he is.

“I’m sorry, Nastya. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t leave me,” she begs, voice weak and breaking. 

She is seventeen, he reminds himself. She is seventeen and she has seen too much, and she needs someone to hold on to. Dmitry will be that person, and fuck Vlad if he has something to say about it. He can find another place to sleep if he complains, for all Dmitry cares.

“Never,” he promises, and kisses her head again. “Never again. Now let’s go back to sleep.”

She lies down again, and he does the same, opening his arms to her so she can snuggle against him. She does so with a sigh, hiding her face against his chest. She cries herself to sleep, but at least she sleeps. Dmitry can’t exactly say the same about himself.

He’s still bleary-eyed the following morning when he wakes up for work, delicately lifting Anastasia’s arm so he can get out of bed. She whines a little, but rolls to the side and snores again, and Dmitry smiles down at her before he leaves the room. He dresses quickly, then goes downstair to have a cup of tea and some bread before leaving. Vlad is already awake, nursing his own cup – at least it means hot water in the samovar, if anything else.

“How often?” the older man asks, not looking up.

It doesn’t take a genius to guess what he means. “Every night. Not always that loud, though, that… That was new.” He rubs his face, then pours himself a cup. “She’s remembering the Tsar’s death. It’s not pretty.”

“What else?”

Dmitry glances at the broken clock – he’s early, and can spare a few minutes – before he sits at the table. “Not much. Trivial things. She knows she’s been here as a child, and she remembers Joy. Erh, Alexei’s dog. She remembered you too, apparently. But mostly… Mostly it’s just about that night in the cellar.” He takes a sip of his tea, and burns his tongue. “Also, she believes someone is waiting for her in Paris, but I think it’s just a lot of crap.”

“Lots of Russian migrants in Paris,” Vlad comments. “They say her grandmother is living there too now.”

“They also say the Tsarina had sex with Rasputin after he brought Alexei back to life. Everyone says a lot of things, doesn’t make them true.”

He sounds bitter even to his own ears, and it only earns him an unimpressed glare from Vlad, raised eyebrows and all. Ah, he deserves it, probably. Still, Vlad frowns next, as if presented with quite the challenging puzzle and trying to solve it. Dmitry licks his lips and looks away, forcing himself to finish his tea faster even if it burns down his throat.

“She will break your heart, son.”

Dmitry chokes on his tea, and punches his chest to breathe properly again. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?”

And one more raised eyebrow. Dmitry groans and stands up, dropping the rest of his tea in the sink before he all but runs away from the kitchen. That old fool has no idea what he’s talking about. He doesn’t know anything about his relationship with Nastya, or what they’ve been through. And if what he says is true, if the former Empress lives in Paris, what then? It’s not exactly next door, and they can’t just jump on a train and hope for the best. It’s just the perfect plan to get shot in five minutes, is all.

He goes to work still brooding.

When he comes back home in the evening, Anastasia has pushed his couch back into her bedroom, and put all his clothes on a chair, his boots lined up next to her against the wall. She’s reading in a broken loveseat by the window, glancing up at him with a smile, before offering him a double take. “What’s this?” she asks, with a nod to the badly wrapped gift in his hand.

“Something that might help,” he tells her, and hands her the package.

The woman at the market only had brown paper and some piece of rope, but Dmitry told her it was better than nothing. Nastya tears through it immediately, then smiles confusingly. “It’s a doll,” she states, but it sounds more like a question. “You got me a doll.”

“So you can hold on tight during the night, and she will take all your nightmares away.”

He feels stupid, saying that out loud. Everything about this feels stupid, from the idea to his explanation to the fact that he bought the Grand Duchess of All of Russia a fucking doll to keep her nightmares away. Like she’s a child. Like she’s a little girl, and not the almost-adult woman he kissed a few weeks ago and is in…

He shakes his head. Stupid boy. Stupid Dima.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what…”

“It’s lovely. Thank you.”

She hugs it to her chest and smiles, and he wants to kiss her again. He remembers what she said yesterday when they argued, about pretending. He refused to think about it too much, which means he could only think of it all day long. Hours of analysing her words, over and over again, and still not having a clue what she meant. 

He sits next to her on the loveseat, looking down at his hands. “Listen, about yesterday…”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

He blinks up at her, surprised and confused all at once. He moves closer to her on the loveseat then, and cups her cheek. “Hey, no, listen. Never apologize to me about your nightmares. I don’t mind.”

“How many times have I kept you awake since we started traveling together?”

_ “I don’t mind,” _ he repeats more firmly. Then, licking his lips, “No, earlier yesterday, when we argued and...”

She sits a little straighter, her jaw clenching under his fingers. Stubborn woman, he wants to scoff, but it’s always been one of his favourite things about her. Her eyes are hard even when she looks away from him. “It doesn’t matter,” she tells him, not even putting a bit of effort into her lie. “Thank you for the gift. I’ll see you at dinner.”

He does scoff this time, his chuckle low and sarcastic. “Oh no, you don’t get to play it like that.” And then, cupping her face in both his hands so to force her to look at him, he asks, “What did you mean, with the whole pretending thing?”

She glares at him, but it’s not as effective as it once could have been. She doesn’t scare him, even if he’s seen her fight, and slap a man with wandering hands once. She’s a force to be reckoned with, and he’s the only idiot who things he can stand in front of the hurricane.

“If you have to ask, it means there is nothing to discuss.”

“Quite the contrary, I’m afraid.” He moves a bit closer, glad that she doesn’t move back. “You trust me with a knife to your throat, but not with that?”

She looks into his eyes, hesitant. In any other person, Dmitry would read it as insecurities, but surely not Anastasia? She’s the most confident person he knows, there is no way she could be anxious about anything in life. And yet.

“When you look at me, what do you see?”

It’s frightening, how easily the answer comes to him. “I see a beautiful, strong, intelligent young woman.”

She couldn’t look more surprised even if he’d slapped her, her eyes widening slightly as she leans back to look at him better. “Is that really who you think I am?”

“I do.”

The air is charged, heavy between them. It makes the hair at the back of Dmitry’s neck stand, his back straighter as he shifts away from her slightly. He doesn’t know what to make of his confession, or the way she reacted, doesn’t know how to handle this strange energy between them. Especially because he thought she knew; he’s never been subtle about the fact that he believes she hangs the moon.

“Thank you,” she says tensely. “I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to pay me a compliment.”

He looks away with a scoff and a sigh, throwing one hand into the air. Count on Nastya to make things even more awkward than they already are. As if he doesn’t compliment her all the damn fucking time, as if he doesn’t believe she’s the most beautiful and perfect woman there is.

(Has he ever said it out loud, though? He can’t remember.)

Her hand on his knee gets him out of his own thoughts, and he chances a glance her way. She still look at him apprehensively, as if afraid he’s going to run through that door any minute now. Which is stupid. As far as they can tell, she’s been doing most of the running away lately.

“Do you really believe it?” she asks him, her voice small.

And maybe Dmitry has to readjust his vision of her, just a little bit. Because she looks anxious, and insecure, and… oh.

_ Oh. _

It all makes sense now, and how could he be so stupid as to not understand the first time? How could he not see what happened, when it is so obvious now? He moves closer to her, cups her cheek again. Fear and hope dance in her eyes, and he hates himself for even putting doubts into her mind in the first place.

“You think I never kissed you again because I don’t have feelings for you?”

She straightens her back and squares her shoulders, as if she’s going to battle instead of talking about her (their) feeling. Only Anastasia could turn a would-be declaration into an argument, he swears. Which is probably why he loves her so much to begin with, really.

God, he  _ loves _ her.

“Don’t sound so startled,” she replies, her chin so high and eyes so proud she looks like her sister Tatiana. Too closed-off, to afraid to show her real feelings about everything and anything. “It is not as if you have given any clues that would lead to…”

“Oh god, Nastya, shut up!”

She opens her mouth to argue back, offended that he would cut her off, but her words are swallowed when he grabs her neck and kisses her. It has very little to do with their first kiss, this one hurried and desperate. It’s been months, and Dmitry groans against her lips because, well,  _ finally. _ Finally she is melting against him again, her fingers in his hair, her breasts pressed to his chest.

She moans into the kiss, tilting her head to deepens it until Dmitry is certain he is seeing stars. As eager as she is, he soon finds himself lying down with Anastasia half on top of him. Her leg thrown over his hip, it leaves her very little to the imagination as to the effect she has on him. Which is why he breaks away from the kiss, breathless and panting and nothing short of amazed.

“Say that again?”

She slaps his chest, but remains on top of him. “You never said anything!”

“I thought it was obvious!” he shots back. “And it’s not as if you were open about it either!”

She puts both her hands on his chest to lean back, her hair tumbling down her shoulders and creating a curtain around them. Her eyes are flashing with both anger and desire, and it sparkles something deep within his stomach.

“We have an entire palace to ourselves and I still chose to sleep next to you. How is that not enough of a message?”

“Your nightmares,” he states. He wants it to be flat, but a smile blossoms on his lips at the ridiculous of the situation, and his words turn into a laugh.

Anastasia is smiling too now, even though she hides it behind a pout. Still, she’s never one for losing a fight, as stupid as this one is. “And you never gave me a clue, so…”

“Shut up,” he says again, and kisses her again.

For the first time in her life, she does as he says.

 

…

 

January takes them by storm, quite literally. Even used to harsh Russian winters, Dmitry is a little caught off-guard by the sudden snow and cold, even more so now that they can’t lit fires in the Palace without alarming the Bolsheviks. Anastasia had already pushed more cushions together to create them a bigger bed, and she now piles up as many fur coats as she can find in the old wardrobes so they don’t die of hypothermia in the middle of the night. Dmitry gets used to going to sleep with her freezing toes against his shin, waking up to her trashing the furs around.

All the factories close down for a full three days because of ice in the pipes, which leaves Dmitry and Vlad jobless and bored out of their minds. Anastasia gets a few off days too – no point sweeping the streets when nobody uses them – and so they decide on a grand cleaning of the Palace, to keep themselves busy. Everything broken and useless is thrown into one ballroom, while Vlad fixes what is fixable so they can sell it back later. 

The real surprise comes when Anastasia decides to take the carpets out and clean them of their dust. They both work on rolling down the one in the main dining room, and stumble upon a trap door leading to a cellar. They look at each other in surprise, and almost fight to decide who will go down first, too excited at the idea of a hidden room in their Palace. It’s all in the small pleasures in life, after all.

When Dmitry follows Nastya down after a ruthless game of rock-paper-scissors, he can’t help the small curse that falls off his mouth. All four walls are shelves with rows upon rows of jars and boxes and cans of food. He blinks at what must be four months’ worth of food to feed the entire Palace. Of course, a bunch of jars have to be thrown away – no good trying those pickled vegetables with how bad they smell – but everything otherwise tastes like it will not give them food poisoning.

Vlad, ever the most rational one, decides to go the other way and to sell it all on the black market. One jar of strawberry jam, he swears, will be enough to keep all three of them going for an entire week. Dmitry isn’t so sure about that, but he will not say no to making some money on the side if he can; Nastya does need a few more dresses and blouses, and his shirt is starting to be see-through from all the washing. They could do with a few more roubles in their pockets.

That is how he starts going to the black market after work, with one or two jars in his satchel. They know better than to sell too many at once, both to keep the Bolsheviks’ attentions away from them and to make as much money as they can. Anastasia follows him sometimes, when her schedule allows it, since she’s a better barter than he is and always gets more money out of people. They make it through winter, then summer like this, until it is November and all the newspapers announce the end of the war. 

Petersburg explodes into an entire week of celebrations, parades and street balls and parties. But everything goes back to the way it was quickly enough. Same old bullshit, same old order who doesn’t retire the ration cards even once rationing is no longer vital to the survival of the country and the financing of armies at the front. Dmitry didn’t expect anything else – he builds cars instead of guns now – and so he doesn’t change any of his habits. None of them do.

It is one such day, Dmitry walking around the  Барток market, when Anastasia grabs his arm with a grin. She has soot on her nose from hours of cleaning the street and dust in her hair, but she looks vibrant as always.

“When are you buying me a pretty silk dress, Dima?”

He laughs, and kisses her. “You’d freeze to death in a silk dress.”

“But I’d look pretty!” She grins even more, before pulling him along. They have their habits at the market now, know exactly where their buyer – a gruff woman owning the last fancy restaurant in town – will be. “Oh, no, I changed my mind. I want a scarf of ermine.”

“It’s so nice, living with a woman of simple tastes.”

She points a finger at him. “You still owe me those blinis and macarons, don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

He sarcastically bows to her, making her laugh once more, before walking on. They soon find their client, and the deal is done in less than five minutes. Dmitry promises to be back the following week, as always, before Anastasia drags him along once more. It is, apparently, soon going to be Vlad’s birthday and so they need to find a gift for him, now that they can afford it.

Dmitry has no idea what a fifty-something conman who used to pass himself as a count would like for his birthday, but he trusts Nastya to know. She seems to be confident and excited about it and, as far as Dmitry is concerned, it’s all that matters.

They find an old woman, face wrinkled by time, selling gold watches, and it sparkles an interest in Dmitry. He takes one and looks it over, impressed by the seemingly good quality. That would make a nice gift for Vlad, wouldn’t it? Maybe not that particular model, though, so Dmitry puts it down and looks at another instead. He registers, if only barely, Nastya talking to someone else. Last time it happened, she bought fur hats for all of them, and it wasn’t that bad an idea, so he lets her do whatever she is doing right now.

It is only when she opens his satchel, and it grows suddenly lighter, that Dmitry glances at her. Then again, in confusion this time. She holds something round and golden in one hand, while she’s giving two cans of beans – which should have been their dinner – to some sketchy-looking man. Dmitry takes a step toward her, golden watches pushed to the back of his mind.

“What do you have here?”

As if sensing a problem, the man immediately says, “No refund!”

Dmitry waves him away with a scoff, before he looks back at Anastasia. Her eyes are almost glassy, like she’s not exactly with them, as she stares down at her purchase. It looks like some kind of fancy little box, golden with green details – definitely more expensive than two cans of beans. But it’s the engraved AR at the top that have Dmitry stop. Her initials.

“It’s a music box,” she replies softly.

“It looks broken,” he adds with a sigh. Great. She wasted food on some broken trinket, exactly what they needed.

“It’s not.”

“It’s not?” the man asks. “Hey, if it’s not, you owe me–”

“Oh, stop talking,” Dmitry snaps at him, before he pushes Nastya away with a hand on her lower back. She follows along without complain, stumbling a little as she keeps staring at the music box instead of looking where she’s going. “Are you all right?” he asks her when she still won’t look away.

She blinks, and comes back to him, slipping the box in her pocket. “I’m fine. Let’s go home.”

Dinner that evening is only the two of them, Vlad out drinking with some friends. Nastya laughs that it’s sad, the fact an old fraud like Vlad has a more thrilling social life than either of them. Dmitry scoffs and waves it off; they need nothing but each other, after all. And he has to admit he loves when it’s just Nastya and him, the domesticity of it. They clean the dishes together after eating, him scrubbing and her wiping. It’s simple and perfectly normal, and it suits them. She bumps her shoulder into his upper arm and smiles before leaving the kitchen and, after checking the samovar is cold, he follows her up the stairs.

She’s already sitting cross-legged in bed when he reaches the bedroom, music box in her hands and this lost, melancholic look on her face. He lies down at her side, raises a hand to play with her hair. 

“Why do you care so much about a broken box?” he asks, not unkindly.

“I told you, it’s not broken.” 

She hooks one nail under a round, golden flower, and it makes a soft popping sound as it detaches from the music box. She then lifts the box, and uses the flower as a key, turning it twice to wind the mechanism up. Much to his surprise, the music box opens, and a soft lullaby he’s never heard before starts playing. Anastasia keeps staring at the miniature, twirling couple inside.

“Nastya?” he asks, but she doesn’t heard him.

She hums along with the tune, eyelashes fluttering before she closes her eyes. When she sings, it is not in Russian but in what Dmitry guesses to be French. “Et au loin, un écho, comme une braise sous la cendre… Un murmure à mi-mot que mon coeur veut comprendre…” 

Her voice grows low, ending into another hum as she finishes the song. It is as if Nastya is no longer by his side but far away into her memories and her past. Dmitry had guessed the music box used to belong to her, expensive as it looks and with her initial engraved on the lid, but there is no denying it now. 

The music ends in a few, slow notes, before she closes the box and hugs it to her chest. A single tear rolls down her cheek, and Dmitry raises a hand to wipe it away. He kisses her cheek too, glad to see a smile on her lips, as sad as it looks.

“Dmitry.”

He looks up and to the door, where Vlad is standing. The older man nods for him to come and follow him out of the bedroom, which Dmitry would rather not do right now. Whatever is happening, surely it can wait until he’s comforted Nastya and she’s fast asleep. But Vlad seems eager, waving impatiently at him, and so Dmitry rises with a sigh.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells Nastya, brushing her hair away from her face. She nods, but she also winds the mechanism up once more, so he isn't certain she heard him. As long as she doesn’t start sobbing uncontrollably, though, she should be fine.

He follows Vlad downstairs to the kitchen, and leans with both hands on the back of a chair. “What.”

“I have news,” Vlad says as he takes a sit. He waves at Dmitry to do the same. “From Paris.”

Dmitry blinks, before he turns the chair around to straddle it, arms folded on the back. “What do you mean? News from who?”

“Her grandmother, the Empress Dowager, she… She’s heard the rumours that some of the Romanovs could still be alive. She’s offering a reward to whoever will give her any information about them, or bring them back to her.”

That’s… quite a lot to take in. Dmitry leans his forehead against his arms, thinking. He licks his lips, and sighs. “Which means, if anyone recognises Nastya now…”

Vlad nods and hums. “And what would you do, if you knew the Empress was that desperate to be reunited with her family?”

The answer comes to him a little too easily, “Find an actress to play the part, and pocket the money.” He shakes his head, and curses. “It’s not like… Vlad, we can’t just  _ leave the country _ because an old woman is waiting for her. It’s not that easy. We’d need papers...”

“We’d need tickets…”

“Nerves of steel,” Dmitry laughs darkly. He shakes his head once more, not longer able to ignore the dread that has been building in his stomach. They have a life here. It’s not a good life by any means, but it’s theirs. They made that for themselves, and if they leave now, if she goes back to her family, if… “But what if it works? Does it mean I…”

He can’t voice his fears, but Vlad does it for him, “Lose her?”

“Lose who?”

Dmitry startles at her voice, almost falling off his chair in the process, and widens his eyes at Vlad in panic. The older man is no help, communicating one message through the look they share;  _ you need to tell her now. _ Dmitry knows he does. It’s been a long time coming, it was always meant to happen eventually. He’d just elected to just forget about it, and improve on the day it would happen. A terrible mistake, quite obviously.

“Nastya!” he grins at her, and she frowns at his too-cheerful tone, guessing something is not quite right. “Please, sit down and…”

“What’s going on?”

He clears his throat, as if it could help giving him some contenance. It obviously doesn’t, and Dmitry jumps to his feet instead. Only he doesn’t quite know what to do next, and just stands awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen, arms behind his back. Nastya is glaring at him by now, unamused.

“There’s… Well, there’s something we – I should have told you a long time ago and… Please, just sit down? Please?”

Nastya eyes him suspiciously as his begging, but takes a sit anyway. Which. All right. Good. Yes, good. He has no idea where to go from there but. Good. At least she’s listening or. Something.

He rubs his face with both hands, and curses silently. By now, she’s looking at him like he purely and simply lost his mind, which is not so far off the truth. Their eyes lock, and he finds himself unable to look away, even as he takes a breath and squares his shoulders.

“Your name is not Anya.” The word tumble out of his mouth as fast as possible, as if it would be of any help. “Because, it turns out, your name is Anastasia. That is, Anastasia Nikolaevna... Romanova.”

Her mouth opens in a wordless gasp, before she looks away from him. Her hands clench in her lap until the knuckles turn white, a single tear rolling down her cheek to die at the corner of her mouth. When she stands up, Dmitry thinks nothing of it at first.

The slap echoes in the silent kitchen.

He raises his hand to his cheek, his own mouth opening in shock. She doesn’t give him the luxury of a comment, though, for she starts yelling. “You told me they were royalists!”

“Technically…”

“TECHNICALLY NOTHING! THEY WEREN’T ROYALISTS! THEY WERE  _ THE ROYAL FAMILY THEMSELVES, _ YOU LIAR!” She raises her hand, and Dmitry takes a defensive step back, but she points a menacing finger at Vlad instead. “And you! You knew too! And you said nothing! NOTHING!”

“It was to protect you,” Dmitry explains weakly.

She turns back to facing once more, and he very much wishes the earth would just swallow him whole right now. He’s a good head taller than she is, but he feels really small and vulnerable right now, target of her wrath.

“You don’t get to decide! YOU DON’T GET TO CHOOSE WHAT’S BEST FOR ME, DMITRY!” She takes another step forward and, panicking, he trips over his feet and falls back on the chair. Eyes wide, he looks up at her. “I was cold and terrified when you found me, and you used it against me. I hate you. I wish we’d never met.”

His mouth opens and closes several time, like a fish out of water, as tears burn at the corner of his eyes. “You can’t mean it.”

“Stop telling me what to do!” she snaps again. She takes a few steps toward the door, before she turns and comes closer again. His heart startles in hope, but it’s soon crushed by her next words. “Give me my diamonds.”

He blinks at her, taken aback. “Wh–what?”

“I don’t trust you with them anymore. Give them back.” She opens her hand in front of him. She must read his surprise, then, for she offers a joyless laugh. “What, you thought I forgot? You really think me stupid.”

Stunned into silence, Dmitry can only put his hand in his pocket and, with trembling fingers, open his palm up so she can take the diamonds from him. She does so with a glare, putting them in her own coat pocket before she turns her heels. She all but flees the room, and Dmitry wince when, a few seconds later, the door to their bedroom slams and the entire Palace seems to rattle with it. Vlad lets out a painful sigh; Dmitry ignores him and stands up.

“Where are you going, son?”

“Out. I need vodka.”

 

…

 

He wakes up on a bench, with a headache, a mouth of cotton, and scarce memories of the previous night. Dmitry stands up with a groan, the world spinning around him and making him gag. But his stomach is empty and he only spits water and vodka before he wipes his mouth. A clock somewhere down the street chimes seven o’clock. Just enough time to go back to the Palace, swallow down something, and go to work. Great, just great.

Everything is silent when he makes it back home, his scoff echoing in the empty hallway at the sight in front of him. His clothes are piled up next to the door to their bedroom, crumpled and crinkled. He grabs one shirt, gives it a sniff to make sure it’s passably clean, before he goes back to the kitchen. Coffee would be more than welcomed now, but they don’t have that kind of money, and so he settles on a cup of bitter, sugarless tea instead. At least it soothes the queasiness in his stomach, if nothing else.

Vlad comes down when Dmitry is ready to leave for work, and he offers him a sympathetic yet stern smile.

“How’s she?” Dmitry asks softly, willing his voice to be less weak than it sounds.

“Upset. She’s been screaming through her sleep, but she barred the door so I couldn’t go in.” So  _ Dmitry _ couldn’t go in. His face falls with sorrow, and Vlad squeezes his forearm. “The girl loves you, Dima. Only an imbecile would think otherwise. Give her time to mourn, and she will come back to you.”

Dmitry swallows around his sob, and hiccups a question. “What if she doesn’t?”

Vlad shakes his head. “She will. The two of you, it’s meant to be. Now go to work, bring something nice for dinner. I’ll take care of her today.”

Dmitry grabs Vlad’s hand with both of his, shaking it a little. He’s at a loss for words, unable to voice everything that is on his mind, and so he settles for a simple yet meaningful, “Thank you.”

Vlad seems to understand everything he doesn’t say – thank you for taking care of her, for being here when I’m not. Thank you for being a good friend to us. Thank you for believing in me, in us. It’s a lot to process, for something so guarded with his emotions, and so Dmitry lets go of the other man’s hand then and turns his back to him. Just in time to hide the tears in his eyes before they threaten to fall.

Needless to say things don’t particularly go up from there. He almost cuts himself at work, too distracted by his own thoughts to be careful, and his boss tells him off in front of everyone else. The rest of the day is the same, dull monotony as usual, made worse by the fact that he has to be all the more careful with his boss breathing down his neck. He throws his overalls in his locker as fast as he can at the end of the day, before heading for the Барток market.

The old woman selling watches raises an eyebrow at him when she notices he’s alone, and he gives her the cold shoulder as he walks further down the market to find his usual client. Thankfully for him the woman is already there when he arrives, ready to trade a jar of orange marmalade against a handful of roubles before she goes her way. The coins weigh heavy in his pocket as he too leaves the market.

He stops by the shop to buy some potatoes and dry beef for dinner, before another shop window catches his eye. He hesitates, just for a second, before he opens the door and goes in.

Vlad is in the kitchen, fighting the samovar, when Dmitry comes home. He drops the groceries on the table and lets the older man grumble against the damn device, and makes for going downstair – he needs to finds himself a new bed, after all. His foot is on the first step when he notices the door leading to the theatre is slightly ajar. They never go to this part of the Palace, mostly because one window is entirely broken and the draft is too strong, leaving them shivering even on sunny days. Dmitry frowns, but curiosity takes over.

He opens the door and walks down the unfamiliar hallway, his footsteps soft against the plush yet moth-eaten carpet. Only when he reaches the theatre’s foyer does he find Anastasia, her back to him. She hugs her sides as she stares at the massive painting of the Romanov family in front of her. The painting is slashed, one corner burnt, but it doesn’t stop her from moving forward and raising a tentative hand, fingers brushing against the painted face of her little brother. 

Alexei must be six in that painting, proudly wearing his sailor uniform and standing as straight as his frail legs will let him. All four sisters don those famous white dresses, matching their mother’s white gown and father’s military uniform. The picture of perfection, as they liked it. So far from the family he lived with in their last weeks before the massacre. If he didn’t know them from before the Revolution, Dmitry never would have recognised them.

Nastya takes a few steps back then, even if she doesn’t look away from the painting. Back ramrod straight, she grabs a pan of her skirt and offers a perfect bow, pressing one hand to her chest. It tugs something deep within Dmitry, to see her acting so regal – so distant from him, as if slipping between his fingers like fog on a cold morning. He closes his eyes and sucks a breath between his teeth, before walking away.

He spends half an hour moving things into the bedroom across the hallway, and then he lies down on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. Everything is so quiet he can hear the echoes of voices from the kitchen, even when he closes the door. He waits until the both of them comes upstairs for the night before he leaves his bedroom. Vlad, bless his heart, left a plate for him on the table and, though the potatoes are long cold by know, Dmitry wolfs down the food without second thought.

He goes to bed with a full stomach but an empty heart, and wonders if he should get used to it. Especially since, a week later, nothing much has changed. Days are nothing but the same, dull routine of going to work and avoiding her in the evening, then catching up with Vlad once she goes to bed. Vlad has been working on her memory with her when they get a moment of freedom, pouring through history books and the few pictures and photographs they found in the Palace. Not enough to get all her memories back but, according to Vlad, just enough that she feels like herself again. He also makes her walk straight and dance, working on her posture and her table manners. It almost sounds hilarious, but Dmitry doesn’t have the heart to laugh.

Nights are the worst part. He can hear her crying after a nightmare startles her out of sleep, and there is nothing he can do about it. She’s still barring her door with the drawer every night, like she knows he would break in if she doesn’t. It’s the most painful part, probably, the fact that she rejects his comfort so obviously; the fact that she would rather suffer on her own than let him help.

He wakes up in the middle of the night once to her body pressed against him in the tiny sofa, her breaths warm on his neck and her arms tight around his waist. She’s gone come morning, the smell of her lingering on his pillow. The only clue he has that he did not, indeed, dream her presence.

It’s another three days before he sees her during their waking hours, and it’s all by accident. He left the factory early because of a fire someone started in one of the machines, and forgot it was hers and Vlad’s days off. He’s sipping tea in the kitchen and reading the newspaper when they burst in, Nastya with books balancing on her head and Vlad following her around, history book in his hands. She tenses at the sight of Dmitry, but keeps walking around the table as if he isn’t here.

“Who’s your great-grandmother?”

“Queen Victoria,” she answers, almost bored by how easy the question is.

“Great-great grandmother?”

“Huh...” she hesitates, before snapping her fingers. “Princess Victoria of Saxe-Colburg-Saalfeld!”

“Good!” Vlad closes the book with a ‘snap’. “Your best friend was?”

_ Maria, _ he thinks.

“My little brother, Alexei!” she exclaims cheerful. 

“Wrong!” he corrects. “Your best friend –”

She grabs one of the book on top her head and throws it at him. Dmitry barely has time to dodge before it hits him in the nose. “I know who my best friend is!”

He rolls his eyes and raises his arms in a placarding yet sarcastic manner. “What a temper,” he can’t help but mock.

She grabs another book and points it at him, like she would have no problem throwing it too. “I don’t like been contradicted!”

He jumps to his feet then, glaring at her. “That makes two of us!”

Her cheeks puff a little in anger and, even though he’s still upset at her for the way she reacted, he finds it cute. She’s cute, and he misses her so much it hurts, like a thousand daggers into his heart. Unfortunately for him, she doesn’t seem to feel the same, if the way she grabs the remaining books – how she managed to keep them balanced, he’ll never know – and throws them on the table. “I’ve had it!” she states rudely before she walks away from the kitchen.

Vlad sends Dmitry a disappointed glance, shaking his head a little. Because obviously everything is Dmitry’s fault! When is it not? He glares at the older man and tells him to shut up, before he follows Nastya up the stairs, just in time for her to slam the door of her room in his face.

He’s about to pound on it until she reacts, when she opens it again and throws something blue at him. “What’s this tent?” she demands, while he struggles with the dress not to let it fall on the dusty floor. “Pretty sure the Russian Circus is still hiding in there somewhere.”

He can’t help it. 

He snorts a laugh.

She slaps his chest immediately. “Don’t laugh at me, you…” She doesn’t finish her sentence, but Dmitry can fill in the blanks for her. “I don’t want your gifts.”

“That’s because it’s not silk, right? I knew I should have gone for the silky one instead.”

She folds her arms and pouts, unamused. At least she’s not hitting him anymore, which is almost an improvement at this point. He’ll take stubborn and annoying Anastasia over the cold shoulder she’s been offering any day, if the choice was his.

“Come on, Nastya. Let me just…”

“No,” she cuts him off, before taking a step back and closing the door on him.

He forces himself not to punch the door, muttering a string of curses to himself and flexing his fingers as he looks away, before he faces the door again. One hand to the wood, he presses his forehead against the door. “That’s how it’s going to be? I can’t explain and then, what? You go to Paris with Vlad and leave me behind?”

He almost startles at how close her voice is, like she’s leaning against the door too, when she replies, “I haven’t decided yet.”

“We don’t have all year.”

She doesn’t reply. He waits another five minutes, before he goes back to his own bedroom. Dmitry doesn’t exactly plan on falling asleep without eating, but he’s exhausted and drained of emotions, and his eyes are closing on their own before dinner is served.

He wakes up slowly, sluggishly, the moon casting silver shadows in his bedroom, and it takes him a while to understand what woke him up. Mainly, the small scratching sounds at his door. He stands up with a groan, and can only blink down at Nastya when he opens the door. She clings her doll to her chest, hair a mess, and looks up at him with teary eyes.

“Can I sleep with you?” she asks with tension in her shoulders, like it pains her to show weakness.

“Of course,” he replies. As if he could deny her anything, at this point.

She follows him back to his sofa, waiting for him to lie down before she snuggles into his side. He wraps his arms around her waist and holds her close, until she sighs a little against his chest.

“I still hate you,” she mumbles into his shirt.

He snorts. “I figured.”

She’s gone come morning, but Dmitry didn’t expect anything else. He sits up and rubs his hands against his face, hoping it will fully wake him up. He was so scared of moving and crushing her during the night that it petrified him, and prevented him from resting properly. Damn, but it would be nice to be in Paris, no ration cards and all the coffee he wants. Sounds like heaven right now.

He gets rid of his pajamas before putting on some clothes and going downstairs. The samovar is already warm, bless Vlad’s heart, and so he pours himself a cup of tea before rummaging through the cupboards to check on their supplies. They are low on beans and brown sugar for the tea, but nothing a stop to the black market can’t fix.

Vlad coughs, and Dmitry turns. Anastasia’s head snaps away, fast not not fast enough as to hide the fact she was staring at him. She’s red from the root of her hair all the way down the collar of her blouse, and it takes Dmitry a few moments to understand what is going on because. Well. He’s clearly missing something.

Then he looks down at himself, and smirks – only wearing trousers, both his chest and feet bare. When he looks at Anastasia again, she’s working really hard on avoiding his gaze, and he wants to laugh on the spot.

She can pretend she hates him all she wants.

Vlad may have been right all along.

 

…

 

“Dmitry? Dmitry! DMITRY!”

He almost falls down the stairs in his hurry, finding his balance at the last second before he makes a run for the kitchen. Anastasia is already there, fighting with her scarf as she tries to untangle it from around her neck. She’s panting loudly, eyes wide and frightened when they fall on Dmitry. 

“What? What happened? Are you okay? WHAT HAPPENED?!”

She looks fine, physically speaking, she doesn’t look hurt. But Dmitry knows there are worse thing than Nastya getting into a fight – he would be more worried for the other guy in that case.

“The officer. The one who tried to execute Vlad. He found me and. He knows. He knows and he’s onto us and. And.”

“What do you mean, he knows?”

She moves closer to him, having given up on her fight with her scarf, and grabs his forearms. Her eyes are desperate, frightened. Terrified. “He saw my eyes, Dmitry. And he knew.”

“Son of a…” He runs a hand through his hair and looks at the ceiling, swearing under his breath as his mind starts racing. Thinking. Making plans. “But how could he? We haven’t told anyone and–”

Vlad coughs awkwardly, and they both turn to him in one motion, offering him twin bewildered looks. “I may have…” He coughs again. “Indulged a little too much in gambling last night and, you know, one thing leading to another…”

Anastasia swears out loud in French. Dmitry doesn’t understand, but he shares the feeling, glaring at Vlad. “What did you tell them?”

“Just that I was leaving the country, so good luck getting their money back.”

“He must have joined all the dots. He must have known we worked together on saving Vlad and…” Anastasia presses both her hands to her mouth, unable to finish her sentence. 

Dmitry looks between the two of them several time, but neither her nor Vlad seem to be handling the situation particularly well. He guesses it’s up to him to take the reins. He takes a deep breath and lets out a long sigh; he can do this. 

“Okay. The train for Berlin leaves at 8 every night. Nastya, we’ll need one of the diamonds now.” He waves at her, and she fishes one out of her pocket immediately. He grabs it and hides it in his own pocket. “You stay here and you pack. Everything you’re not taking, burn it. We’re not leaving any evidence we were here behind. Vlad, go and find your man for the forged papers. Tell him it’s urgent, and we can pay. I’ll meet you there after I’ve pawned the diamonds. Are we clear on this?”

Anastasia nods, and Vlad hums his approval. Good. That was easy, for the most part. But it’s only the planning, and now they need to make sure the execution goes smoothly too. Which, it should, right? They’ve managed not to get caught by the Bolsheviks for months, why should it change now?

Anastasia makes it to the door, before he calls her name again. She turns around, tilting her head to the side curiously, and Dmitry only answers by opening his arms and waving at himself. Though neither of them speak, she understands his silent question, her eyes softening as she walks back to him. 

She rises on her tiptoes and cups his face. “If you believe I’m leaving you behind, you’re even more stupid than I thought.”

“You’d be surprised,” he mutters back through a relieved smile. 

She rolls her eyes, and rises up to kiss his cheek. Then she turns to Vlad again, “Three forged passports, Vlad Popov. Go!”

Vlad doesn’t have to be told twice, running out of the Palace as fast as his aging body will allow. Dmitry squeezes Nastya’s hand before he follows the other man out. “I’ll see you at the train station. And then we’ll talk.”

She nods, somewhat anxiously. “We’ll have time for this on our way to Berlin.”

He winks at her, then starts running. He doesn’t stop until he’s crossed the canals three times, putting as much distance between the centre of Petersburg and himself as possible. The streets are more narrow and dirty in this part of town, which doesn’t say much. But at least the Bolsheviks don’t really bother checking what is happening behind closed door in those neighbourhoods, and so Dmitry will use it to his advantage. 

He finds the shop he’s heard of at the marketplace, and knocks twice, three times, and twice again on the door. An older man, ancient by the look of him, opens the door and ushers him inside after making sure than the street is desert. 

Dmitry gets out ten minutes later, with one less diamond in his pocket and enough to buy their freedom out of this dreadful country. He smiles to the sky, and breaks into a run again. 

He meets with Vlad as planned, only to spend the next two hours anxiously biting his thumb until he draws blood and winces. Vlad pushes him out, telling him they’ll meet at the train station in the evening and please, could he find those nerves of steel he bragged about?

Dmitry is pretty sure they’re all the way at the bottom of the Neva, by now. Still, he makes his way back to the Palace, just in time to help Nastya drag three suitcases outside. The inside of the Palace smells a little of burnt paper and tea, a sign that she follows his instructions perfectly. His smart girl. 

He wants to do something rash, like hugging or kissing her, so he turns away from her instead and walks toward the river bank. The sun is setting already and, despite the low clouds, it engulfs the buildings in its warm, golden light. Dmitry folds his arms against the low wall, chin on top of them, and sighs. 

He will miss her, his Petersburg. She was home and he has to bid her farewell again, so soon after being reunited with her. Dmitry closes his eyes and lets the Russian sun kiss his face one last time as the memories flood his mind. 

_ Mama would be proud of you, _ a little voice tells him.  _ Papa would judge you for being a royalist. _ He smiles to himself.  _ But Papa valued loyalty above everything else, so he’d understand. _

And perhaps that is more than enough. 

Tiny arms wrap around his waist from behind, startling him out of his thoughts. She presses her cheek between his shoulder blades, and Dmitry grabs one of her hands, brushes his thumb against her knuckles. 

“I’m sorry you have to say goodbye again.”

“It’s fine,” he replies, and finds that he means it. “I’m just glad I got to see her one last time.”

She nods against his back, before taking a step back. Dmitry waits until she stops sniffing to turn around, to give her time to wipe away the tears and pretend like she isn’t emotional. When he faces her again, she’s holding her suitcase and smiling through the sadness in her eyes. 

It may be his city, but it is her country she’s leaving behind. It’s even worse. “Let’s go,” Dmitry tells her softly, before he grabs the two other suitcases. 

They use all the back alleys on their way to the train station, looking above their shoulder and making sure they are not being followed. It’s more than a relief when they make it without being arrested and find Vlad on the platform. He hands them the papers and takes his suitcase, before he sighs. 

“This is it, then.” There is an air of solemnly in his tone as he looks around him, silently saying goodbye to everything around him. 

Nastya leans against Dmitry’s arm, so he kisses the top of her head to reassure her. Whatever may come next, at least they’ve made it this far. At least they are together. 

Vlad is the first to climb on the train, and Dmitry grabs Anastasia’s suitcase before he follows. She follows too, but stops at the door to look back at the station one last time. Dmitry heard her whispering, “Goodbye, homeland. You were good to me, for the most part,” before she turns around and follows him down the corridor. 

They find an empty carriage where to sit, and Nastya immediately claims the spot by the window, sighing as she looks out. Dmitry sits next to her, and elbows her softly. 

“Hey. I got something for you.” She looks at him, and grins through her melancholy when he takes a book out of his pocket to hand it to her. “Good old Tolstoy, right?”

“Thanks, Dima.” She looks up at him, and her words have a lot more meaning to them when she offers him a shy yet beautiful smile. “Thank you.”

She means more than just the book but, after weeks of emotional disaster, Dmitry isn’t sure he can quite handle it yet. So he shrugs. “It’s fine. I’m only in it for the reward anyway.”

“Oh yes,” she answers with a knowing nod. “Scamming old ladies, and all that.”

He rolls his eyes, but smiles. 

There is somewhat familiar and comforting about train journeys by now, Nastya soon moving around so she sits with her feet on his lap while Dmitry dozes on and off until he truly falls asleep. Vlad has been out to the world for an hour already, the events of the day too exhausting for him, and snores loudly. 

Dmitry startled awake in the middle of the night, stomach in his throat as memories of a nightmare linger on his mind and the train rocks him back and forth. He blinks against the weak light coming from the corridor, before he notices Nastya’s hand shaking his shoulder lightly. 

“Come with me?” she whispers. 

“Really?  _ Now?” _

She sighs, and it echoes in the silence of their carriage. “Yes, now. Wake up, you big baby.”

He almost falls from his seat when he sits up, rubbing one hand against his face as he finds his balance. Nastya opens the door slowly, as not to make sounds and wake Vlad up, and Dmitry follows her out of the carriage and down the corridor. She opens the door at the very end of the corridor, the one leading outside between wagons. Dmitry is tempted to ask her if it’s a good idea, but contradicting her now doesn’t sound particularly compelling. 

Plus, the wind finishes to wake up up fully, so he sits by her side on the small platform, legs dangling above the rails. When he looks up, it’s to a clear sky and bright stars. He sighs at the beauty of it all. 

“Why?” Nastya asks, taking him away from his reveries. Such a simple question, for such a complex answer. He doesn’t even know where to start, licking his lips and trying to find the words that will ultimately fail him. 

“I don’t know,” he admits softly, and refuses to look her way. “I guess it was easier at first, because I really thought I was keeping you safe. We were still so close to Ekaterinburg and… I was just so scared they would find you and finish the job. I just wanted to protect you. From the moment I found you in this forest, that’s all I’ve been trying to do.”

He swallows against the knot in his throat, and shakes his head with a small, self-deprecating laugh. Nastya puts her hand on top of his where it lies on the ground of the platform, but still Dmitry won’t look at her. Gazing into her big, blue eyes, it would just steal the words from him. 

“And then… I was just acting selfishly. It was easier, not having to deal with it. It... I…” He sighs, and it sounds heartbroken even to his own ears. “I’ve made a mistake, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I kept it from you for so long. It wasn’t fair on you, because I did it to protect myself, not to protect you.”

He prays that she will not ask him to expand, for he has no idea what he would say. Those kinds of conversations are already difficult enough as they are, without forcing him to wear his heart on his sleeve. And what would he say, anyway? That, even now, especially now, he is terrified at the idea of losing her? That there is not a day where he doesn’t wonder when she’ll realise the mistake she made, kissing him in front of the Yusopov Palace all those months ago? She’s not just Anya anymore, she’s a princess. And princesses don’t fall in love with kitchen boys. One day, she might remember that, and then what?

But instead, Nastya switches in her sitting position, hugging her legs and leaning her chin on her knees. Dmitry eyes her carefully, afraid she might lose her balance and fall off the train.

“I see their faces in my dreams every night now,” she confesses. She’s silent for a moment, before she goes on. “I used to only dream about the cellar, and the gunshots but… But now I can see Olga and Tatiana holding on to each other. And Maria pounding on the door, screaming for help. And Alexei. Oh, Alexei…” She hiccups a sob. “Sitting on his chair, blood all over him. He was so brave until the very last moment and…”

She leans on the side, and it is all Dmitry needs to move closer and wrap his arms around her. She falls against his chest, sobbing loudly into his neck. He caresses her hair and rubs her back, whispering soothing words into her ear until she calms down. He has no idea how long they stay there, hugging with the landscape flashing by, the wind dancing in her hair, but he doesn’t let go of her until she, slowly, finally, calms down.

She wipes the tears away from her soaked cheeks. “The nightmares are worse when you’re not here,” she admits. Even in the darkness, he can see how crimson her cheeks turn. “Not that... I’m not keeping you around only for that.”

“Also for the amazing hair and charismatic persona?”

She offers him her most unimpressed look which, along with her puffy eyes, only manages to make him laugh. The sound stirs something in her, for soon she’s smiling too, and leaning forward to drop a kiss at the corner of his lips. “I missed you,” she admits.

“I missed you too.”

Her fingers brush against his jaw, soft and delicate. “I understand why you did it. But I’m my own person, Dmitry. You shouldn’t be making choices for me like that. You shouldn’t lie to me just because you think it’s protecting me. I’m stronger than that.”

“Lesson learnt,” he replies, and kisses her forehead. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

She rolls her shoulders a little, and tilts her chin up. “I know. I saved you from those guys in Moscow, remember?” 

He barks a laugh and she giggles, wrapping her arms around his neck to keep him close. With her body pressed to his chest like this, warm and solid, he almost forgets how cold it is outside, with the night sky and the wind. Soon they will have to go back in, if they don’t want to catch a cold, but Dmitry doesn’t mind staying like this for a little while longer.

She takes him by surprise, though, as she often does. “Is it why we never had sex?”

“Aaaaand we’re done.”

He jumps to his feet, dragging up up with him, glad that the darkness hides the fire in his cheeks. Nastya protests to standing up, still clinging to his neck, too close for his comfort now. Her eyes lock with him, knowing, familiar. She has a mischievous smile on her lips, like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. She knows him too well, it’s starting to be a problem.

“Come on, Dima,” she whines, which. Not helping. At all.

“We’re not having this conversation on a frozen platform in the middle of the night.”

“When then?”

_ Never _ , is a good option. He can’t tell her that, though. She got mad enough after their first kiss, when nothing less happened, and he doesn’t exactly expect her to react well to the reason as to why he’s not going to get more intimate with her. Especially with everything else it implies – his insecurities and fears and abandonment issues. No, thank you.

“Let’s just go back inside and get some hours of sleep. Please?” 

She must read the desperation in his begging eyes, for she simply nods. He takes her hand and opens the door, leading her inside. They’re both quiet when they make it back to the carriage, though they don’t have to try all that hard with how loudly Vlad is snoring. Nastya giggles under her breath, even more so when the both of them struggle to lie down side by side on the tiny bench. She ends up half on top of him, hiding her grin in his neck. Dmitry fights against a laugh too, and holds her close. For once, he falls asleep fairly quickly, with her hair in his mouth and her warmth all around him.

He wakes up with the sun, hours later, only to notice Vlad staring at the both of them with a smile. Dmitry mouths “Creep!” to him, and the older man chuckles to himself.

“What’s meant to be, is meant to be,” Vlad whispers back. 

Nastya stirs, halfway awake. “What does it mean?”

“Nothing,” Dmitry replies softly, caressing her hair. “Go back to sleep, love.”

She nods and snuggles back against his neck, breathing deeply. It’s not so hard for Dmitry to fall back asleep too, and that is how he spends most of his morning, slipping in and out of slumber with Anastasia in his arms. Vlad buys them all snacks from the restaurant car for lunch, and Dmitry almost spits his mouthful when he hears the price they paid. Nastya pats his shoulder and raises her eyebrows, muttering something about getting used to it soon. He’s not sure he can, really.

She reads to him during the afternoon and, come evening, the train stops in Warsaw. Only for half an hour, though, so they go as fast as possible to exchange some money and stock up on as much snacks as possible. Nastya’s pockets are full of chocolate bars, and they buy dry meat and apples too, to keep them going as long as possible. Dmitry also buys a Polish magazine and, for the next few hours, he and Nastya pour over it like giggling children. They don’t understand the language but it doesn’t stop them from reading it aloud and making guesses about what everything means, much to Vlad’s annoyance. He keeps glaring at them from above the rim of his own book, muttering something about ‘children, he’s traveling with children and God help him…’ Nastya pokes her tongue out at him and laughs at a bad joke Dmitry makes.

Nastya falls asleep with her head on his lap and a smile on her lips, and Dmitry feels like everything is right in the world again. Even more so when they make it safe and sound to Berlin the following afternoon. He’s anxious to step out of the train, afraid Bolshevik soldiers will appear out of nowhere and ship him back to Russia. But nothing of the like happens, and instead he finds himself following Nastya around the train station, holding both their suitcases.

She babbles away in an approximative German with a station intendant, a stern-looking woman who mellows at the sight of this adorable, over-excited Russian girl. She points this and that way, still talking by the time Vlad catches up with them, patting his forehead with a handkerchief. 

“I’m not as young as I used to be, Dima…” He sighs.

Dmitry frowns at the platform where the train stopped. “You barely walked two hundred meters.”

“Don’t talk like this to your elders.” Dmitry smirks a little, before following Vlad’s line of sight when he nods to Nastya. “Look at her. All Alexandra about it.”

“No,” Dmitry can’t help but correct. “I’ve never seen the Tsarina smile.”

Vlad guffaws, loud enough to catch Nastya’s attention. She turns toward them with one of her dazzling smiles and, not for the first time, Dmitry’s legs go a little weak at the knees. “She says the next train to Paris is only in five days, but we can take one to Brussels tomorrow and make a change there. There’s an hotel just around the correct that isn’t too expensive, and she recommends it.”

She turns back to the woman to add something more in German, probably thanking her for the precious help. The woman grins, then very obviously points to Dmitry. “ Er ist ziemlich ansehnlich, nicht wahr?”

He frowns. “Wait. What did she say?”

Nastya comes closer to him, and puts a hand against his chest. Her smile is placating at best. “That you look very tall and stupid.”

She flashes him a grin before she turns around and makes for leaving the train station, Vlad following her with a booming laugh. Dmitry stay frozen on the spot, shocked by the very obvious lie, before he manages to get himself in check and to follow them out. “That’s not even remotely true! You’re the one who’s too small!”

She turns around, walking backward to look at him and flash him a grin. “I’m just tall enough to knock you out if I want.”

“Aw, that’s my girl,” he cooes, a little too over-the-top.

Vlad eyes them both suspiciously. “I hope you’re aware you’re literally the only ones who find that cute.”

Nastya laughs and winks at Dmitry before she turns around and starts walking properly again. The woman was right in saying the hotel was around the corner, because it doesn’t even take them five minutes before they find it, which is all the better for Vlad. Once in the lobby, he sits in one of the chairs, apparently letting Dmitry and Nastya handle the rest from there.

Dmitry glances at her and she nods, walking toward the reception with confidence in her steps. She starts talking in German to the receptionist and, a few moments later, they are handed two keys and a bellboy grabs their suitcases to bring them up to their rooms.

“Two bedrooms?” Dmitry whispers to her.

“And a king size bed!” she adds happily.

Dmitry laughs out loud, and grabs her head to kiss her temple. “You’re fabulous.”

She brushes her hair away from her shoulders. “I know, I know. Wait until you see the bathtub.”

Needless to say, Nastya laughs hysterically when the first thing Dmitry does when they enter their bedroom is pour himself a bath. The water turns an embarrassing shade of brown – he can’t remember the last time they did more than cleaning their face, maybe in Perm? – but still he stays in it until it grows cold and his fingers are pruny.

She’s sent all their clothes to be cleaned while he was otherwise busy, which leaves Dmitry with nothing but his pajama trousers for the night. He’s pretty sure she’d done it on purpose, already wearing her nightgown herself and carefully brushing her hair, sitting in the middle of the bed. He lets himself fall at her side, feet dangling off the mattress and arms circling her waist.

“That was nice,” he mutters against the fabric of her nightgown.

“And look! You don’t smell like grease and dirt anymore!”

He groans against her stomach, and it makes her laugh. He hears more than sees her throwing the brush across the room, before she leans back in bed. Dmitry needs little more to move up in bed and tower over her so he can kiss her properly for the first time in what feels like forever.

It’s slow and passionate and Dmitry pours as many feelings as he can into the kiss. She’s soft and pliant beneath him, her back arching as little moans escape her lips. It’s hard for him to think after that, to focus on anything more than her lips against his and his hand in her hair, his hand gripping her side.

Her fingers brush down his chest, then his stomach, getting a small giggle out of her when his muscles flex under her ministrations. They don’t stop there, though, and Dmitry jerks back when two fingers hook in the waist of his trousers.

“Nastya. Nastya, no,” he mutters against her mouth.

She pushes him away, pouting and confused. “Why?”

Seems like they’re having that damn conversation after all. “Because you deserved better than your first time in some abandoned palace, and… And you deserve better than this.” A beat, before he sighs. “Than me.”

“Dima, I don’t understand.”

He sits up then, and turns around. It’s easier not to be facing her, even if it makes him a coward. He sits on the edge of the bed, feet against the cold floor and elbows on his knees. A sigh escapes him when Nastya hugs him from behind, nose against his neck. 

“Talk to me, Dima.”

He closes his eyes, and squints until it hurts. “Why didn’t Olga ever get married?”

It takes her by surprise, tensing against his back. “Because she never found the right match.”

“The maids talked about it for two entire weeks. The handsome soldier Olga had fallen in love with. And oh, how sad it was that she could never marry him because he was a…”

“Commoner,” Nastya finishes for him. She’s silent for long seconds, as so is he. “You know it is not the same, right?”

His laugh is low and humourless. “It is exactly the same, Nastya. You might not be a Grand Duchess anymore, but you’re still an aristocrat. And when you’ll be with your grandmother again…” He stops, and swallows with difficulty. “Princesses don’t marry kitchen boys.”

“Hey. Hey, no.” She lets go of him and falls to the floor, kneeling in front of him so she can take his hand and force him to look at her. Dmitry stubbornly stares at his lap, until she forces him to look up and meet his eyes. “Where is that coming from?”

“It’s always been there. I’ve always known I was in love with someone I couldn’t get for the rest of my life.”

Her lips part in a silent gasp, and Dmitry curses himself. Of all the ways to finally tell her, that is the one he chose? As if he had ruined the night enough already, he had to end it on a disastrous love confession too. 

“Dima…”

He waves her off. “Forget it. It’s fine.”

“Dima, I love you too.”

He blinks at her. Speechless. She smiles, soft and nervous, before she leans on his knees to push herself up and brush her lips against his. Barely even a kiss, but Dmitry is too dumbfounded to kiss her back anyway. “What.”

“Damn, you’re lucky you’re handsome,” she says flatly. It takes him five long second to understand she’s joking. “We’ve been together for more than a year, Dima. Did you really think I didn’t feel anything for you?”

“I didn’t want to get my hopes up…”

“Well you’re a moron.”

The insult, along with the way she says it, is so unexpected it gets a breathless laugh out of Dmitry. Everything about this moment feels surreal to him, but still he opens his arms to Nastya so she can cuddle up. She wraps her arms around his neck, holding him so close it’s as if she’s mending the pieces of his broken heart. 

“Nobody but myself gets to choose who I spend the rest of my days with,” she whispers. “Or who I give my heart to. And it’s belonged to you for a very long while now.”

“Nastya…” he starts to complain, because it’s not as easy as she makes it out to be. Because they are on their way to her grandmother’s and soon she will have to stop pretending she’s nothing more than a little street sweeper. Soon she will wear expensive clothes and go to the opera, and be introduced to handsome gentlemen. Soon she will be in another universe, one where Dmitry doesn’t belong. 

“Shh,” she stops him. “Your proposal was terrible, so don’t make it worse for yourself.”

He chokes on his own saliva. “I didn’t propose!” he exclaims, his voice breaking into a high-pitch. 

She chuckles, and kisses him. “I know. It won’t be that bad when you do it properly.” He opens his mouth again, but she stops him again. “Shut up. I love you.”

And perhaps, for a while longer, it’s all that matters. Perhaps he can even convince himself that everything will be fine between them, once they make it to Paris. 

Nastya pushes him back down on the mattress with her hands on his chest, and straddles him so they can kiss. He doesn’t know if she’s doing it to distract him from his dark thoughts, or for something else, but soon Dmitry finds that he doesn’t mind. And he wouldn’t mind more of those distractions in his life. 

“You need to take a bath,” he mutters against her lips. “I’m not deflowering you when you stink like that.”

She bursts into laughter, hiding her face in his neck. Even when she stops laughing, her body still trembles with silent giggles. “Who would have thought you were so prudish, Mister Sudayev,” she teases. 

“Just go and take a bath, you animal.”

She laughs again, but stands up. Her hips sway a little more than usual when she makes her way toward the bathroom, Dmitry’s eyes lingering on her body until the last moment. When she closes the door, he lies back and sighs, putting his arm above his eyes. 

He’s already sleeping when she comes back to bed. She smiles and lies down behind him, her chest pressed against his back and her arms encircling his waist. 

He wakes up to warm yet empty sheets, and Nastya humming to herself. Hugging the pillow, Dmitry allows himself a few moments to admire her, his heart racing against his ribcage when he notices she’s wearing his dress. It falls slightly below her knees and hugs her narrow waist, even more beautiful on her than it looked on the hanger.  Royal blue has always been her colour. 

She raises her hands to pull her hair into a ponytail and smiles at him through the mirror. 

“Where did you get such a pretty dress?” he teases. 

“The Circus was giving away old costumes,” she mocks back. “I think this one used to belong to a very sad clown.”

He wrinkles his nose at her and she laughs, before his smile grows softer again. “You look beautiful.”

Her lips press into a thin line to hide her smile, but her cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink regardless. Done with her hair, she turns around to face him, and Dmitry lets go of the pillow to sit on the edge of the bed. 

“You know, when I was a little girl, Nana always said she would take Maria and me to Paris once. Of course we all knew Mama would have never let us out of her sight but… it was nice to dream about it. And Nana, she had this saying.” She steps closer until she stands between his legs. “Ensemble à Paris.”

“In Russian, for the common people?”

“Together in Paris.” She cups his face and tilts his head up, before pressing her forehead against his. “Toi et moi, ensemble à Paris.”

“I like the sound of that.”

Nastya nuzzles his nose, once, twice, before her lips capture his in a sloft and slow kiss. He puts his hand flat on the small of her back, pushing her closer. Her tongue caresses his lips and Dmitry sighs into her mouth, allowing her entrance. 

He melts between her hands, lets himself forget the world around him. Only matter her mouth on his and her fingers in his hair, only matters her heart beating fast against his chest. 

A knock startled them both. 

“Nastya, child, tell Dmitry to wake up and finish packing. The train is leaving in an hour.”

Dmitry glares at the door. “I’m awake!”

“Could have fooled me,” Vlad quips back. “Hurry up!”

Dmitry sighs and offers Nastya an exasperated face, to which she only laughs before she kisses his nose. She slips from his fingers with a twirl, before she grabs her clean clothes and folds them neatly. Dmitry has to force himself to stand up and get dressed, grabbing a handful of fabrics that he throws in his suitcase. She tsks in such a way that only gives him flashbacks to the late Tsarina, his back straightening in answer. 

“I’m looking forward to not spending hours on a train anymore,” she comments while she shrugs on her coat. It clashes badly with her dress; they will have to buy her new clothes, if they want her to look like more than just a little street rat.

“Your royal bottom too good for a cheap train seat?” he teases, and laughs when she throws one of the little hotel soaps his way. “But yeah, it’ll be good to no longer be running away.”

“Running forward,” she corrects with a grin.

They make it to the train station early enough to buy tickets and have breakfast, Nastya poking her tongue between her teeth and staring pointedly at Vlad as she buys a magazine all in German. The older man throws his hands up in the air and starts grumbling in French to her. Dmitry doesn’t understand one word, but laughs anyway.

Thankfully, the journey to Brussels isn’t all that long and, with their early departure, they make it to the Belgian capital in the evening. After hours of reading German out loud and playfully fighting with Dmitry over anything and everything, Nastya is passed out on his shoulder when the train slows into the station. Accepting his fate, Dmitry gives Nastya’s suitcase to Vlad, before he throws Nastya over his shoulder, as delicately as he can, and grabs his own suitcase.

“And they say romance is dead,” Vlad comments with a laugh, before he leads the way.

It’s a testimony to Nastya’s exhaustion that she doesn’t wake up until they find a hotel where to spend the night. Passerbys and hotel employees alike stare at them with wide eyes, but Dmitry ignores them all, tightening his grip on Nastya’s legs. Thankfully, Vlad is able to ask for bedroom in French, so they don’t have to wake Nastya up to rely on her knowledge of languages.

A bellboy takes Dmitry’s suitcase from him, which leaves him the luxury of carrying her in his arms instead. She stirs when he’s closing the door to their bedroom behind him. “Where are we?” she asks, voice low and groggy.

“Belgium.” He carefully drops her on the bed. “Everyone talks French here, you’ll love it.”

“I miss Pierre,” she mutters.

He caresses her hair, and sits by her side, smiling when she snuggles into his chest. “Yeah, I’m sure he misses you too.”

Dmitry wonders what happened to the family’s French tutor, and to Sydney too. Did they ever make it back to London and Switzerland? Did the Bolsheviks give them grief for following the Romanovs into exile? Dmitry refuses to think about the alternative, refuses to believe anything else than the two men finally back in their home countries.

Caught between sleep and awake, Nastya doesn’t share his worries. She rubs her nose against his ribs, like a kitten begging for affection, as she slowly escapes slumber. Her stomach rumbles loudly, but still she doesn’t move. Dmitry caresses her hair again, playing with the locks and detangling the knots.

“What else do you remember?” he asks her, when he’s certain she’s fully awake and just lazing around.

Nastya looks up at him, half of her face still pressed into her side. Her eyes shines with melancholy, but she finds it in herself to smile. “Most of my time in Tsarskoye Selo. Some memories from Tobolsk. Not much from… the last days, but maybe it’s better off this way.” Silence lingers between them, until she moves so that she lies on her stomach, arms folded on his chest. “I remember  _ you _ too. Thin, not too clean.”

“Hey,” he protests with a laugh.

“I was running away from Mama after spilling ink all over her journal, and you helped me hide behind the potato sacks.”

He remembers it, her laughing eyes, blue ink all over her arms and white dress. She’d begged him to help, and he’d nodded toward the sacks in the corner, speechless. He’d never seen a royal before, let alone talked to one.

“It was my first day at the palace,” he remembers. “I was so scared of making a mistake, and there you were. I got quite the lecture from the cook for that one. ‘You are meant to serve the Tsar’s family, Dmitry Constantinovitch, not hide them away.’ Never really learnt my lesson, apparently.”

Nastya’s smile grows so fond and beautiful, and all Dmitry can think is ‘Dima, I love you too’. Never has it been more obvious in her eyes, how much she cares about him, and it leaves him breathless and a little brainless. 

“I miss Livadia the most,” she adds then. “It was the only place where Papa was truly happy.”

He brushes his fingers along the curves of her jaw. “Maybe you’ll go back one day.”

She shakes her head, but it’s not sad. Like she’s grieved her past already. He has no idea how she does it, when the loss of Petersburg is still branded into his bones, aching and painful. “They say the French Riviera is really nice too.”

Dmitry lets his head falls against the pillow with a groan. “We’ll need more diamonds to quench your pampered tastes,” he comments, and she laughs.

They meet with Vlad a little while later and, thanks to the receptionist’s recommendations, spend the evening in a lovely restaurant nearby. It’s good and simple, and the bill doesn’t make Dmitry want to cry, which is always an advantage. They laugh together and share a bottle of wine and, halfway into the meal, he surprises himself thinking,  _ I could get used to it. _ Not that getting used to a good quality of life is all that surprising, but. Him and Nastya and Vlad, together. Happy. He could get used to that.

They decide that spending a few days in Brussels couldn’t hurt, especially if they pawn one of the diamonds. It will offer a much needed break from all those hours of train, and a breeze of fresh air before making it to Paris and to whatever will happen next.

Which, quite obviously, means Nastya drags Dmitry to a department store. It is, to say the least, overwhelming. Dmitry has never seen such a lavishing display of riches before, and he’s stepped into the ballroom of the Catherine Palace once. To think that any man, given the right amount of money in his pockets, could just come and buy something here, like it’s perfectly normal… Yes, it may take Dmitry some time to adapt.

So overwhelmed he is that he barely realises Nastya is pilling clothes into his arms until he’s sitting in a comfortable chair in front of a changing room. Only when she steps out, wearing an elegant dress and a massive hat, does he understand she is putting on a show for him, swaying her lips and twirling. She claps her hands in front of her, waiting for his approval and. Okay. Dmitry can do this.

That is how they spend the next two hours, Nastya trying on dresses after dresses, Dmitry nodding his approval or making a face. If nobody gives them a second thought at first – and why would they, with Dmitry still dressed like a street rat – one shop assistant comes and offer her help when it is made obvious there are here to stay. And to buy. Nastya welcomes her help with a grin, which does not bode well for Dmitry’s wallet.

He sneaks away when Nastya is trying on two dozen pairs of shoes, to find a pawn shop a few streets away where he can exchange one of the diamonds for money. The man behind the counter eyes him suspiciously, and probably offers him way less than he would have if Nastya were here to barter with him, but Dmitry doesn’t care. As long as it’s enough to buy his duchess everything she wants, he doesn’t care.

By the time he comes back, she’s added two hats and a winter coat, and is looking at rouge for her cheeks. He may have made a great mistake.

“You’re carrying your own suitcase starting now,” he tells her as he wraps a arm around her waist.

She grins, a pokes his cheek with her finger, leaving a smug of rouge on his skin. “That’s why we have bellboys, my love.” At her use of the nickname, Dmitry forgets to argue back. She turns to the shop assistant then, nodding toward him. “Il lui faut de nouveaux vêtements également. Quelque chose de distingué.”

“Evidemment, Mademoiselle.”

Which is how Dmitry unwittingly finds himself trying on a three-piece suit for the first time in his life. It is not quite like the suits he remembers aristocrats wearing during royal gatherings, but it is close enough – and tight enough at the neck – to make him uncomfortable. The shop assistant seems to understand it, for she gives him more casual attires to try next, elegant trousers and comfortable shirts not unlike his old look, only more appropriate for their seemingly new way of life.

Dmitry finds himself grateful not to know how much it is all worth in roubles, once he has to hand all the bank notes to the lovely shop assistant. She promises everything will be brought to their hotel before the end of the day, and thanks them for their purchases, before she goes to take care of another customer.

Nastya beams at him. “Mama never let us spend that much money.”

“Says the richest girl in all of Russia,” he comments with a eye roll.

She kicks his shin, but doesn’t take affront in his jab. Probably because she’s aware he’s more than right. She can give him the ‘we slept on cots and shared clothes’ speech all she wants, it doesn’t change the fact that she grew up a princess. Not a bratty and pampered one, but still a princess. And Dmitry has no idea how he’s supposed to go on in life, making sure she never lacks anything, when he has barely no skills to himself beside three meals he cooks vaguely well.

Anxiety rises in his throat, and no amount of shaking his head chases his fears away. He will have to learn to live with them, or so it seems.

Thankfully for him, and his nerves, Nastya’s buying spree stops there and, after a quick lunch in a little café on the Grand Place, she is more than fine just holding his arm and wandering around town. 

They discover little streets and hidden gems, everything so different from Petersburg, and yet so familiar. Big cities are all the same, with their mysteries and their secret, crime hiding in their bellies and whispers carried by the wind. After an entire morning unable to catch his breath, Dmitry feels like living again. And if Paris is the same way, holds the same secrets, then. Maybe he will be fine.

Nastya kisses his shoulder.

Yes, he will be fine.

 

…

 

“La belle France!” Vlad exclaims, opening his arms and almost knocking a stranger in the process. The woman glares at him before she goes on her way, and Dmitry smirks.

He glances at the train station around him, the perfect opportunity to bug his friend. “Looks just like Russia!”

Vlad gives him a look. “France looks nothing like Russia!”

Nastya wraps her arms around Dmitry’s, well aware of his little game. “Russia is more beautiful,” she states solemnly, her chin up.

Vlad immediately rants at them, getting more emotional by the second, and Dmitry soon finds himself laughing along with Nastya. Making fun of Vlad might be mean, in how easy it is to push his buttons, but damn if he and Nastya aren’t two children at heart who love to play tricks on their favourite uncle.

He apparently decides to have his revenge by draining them both of their energy, dropping their suitcases in a hotel before he shows them everything Paris has to offer. Long gone is the old man who was panting from just carrying his suitcase around. Vlad looks ten years younger already as they climb on top of the Eiffel Tower to get a panoramic view of the city, before stopping in a café for coffee and warm croissants, then being on their merry way to the Louvre. 

When they finally stop at the end of the day, Dmitry’s feet are sore and his mind full of new images. Vlad offers to buy them all drinks, which Dmitry happily approves, but Nastya stops him with a hand on his arm. 

When he turns to her, she’s holding a map to Paris against her chest. “I’m going to walk by myself a little before coming back to the hotel.”

Fears grips Dmitry’s stomach, before he remembers they no longer are in Russia. He doesn’t have to look above his shoulder and be afraid of Bolsheviks taking her from him anymore. “Don’t get lost,” he replies, leaning forward to kiss her. 

She offers him a fond look, tongue darting ou to lick her lips, before she nods and walks away. She looks at him only last time before, with a little wave of her hand, she disappears around a corner.

“Are you just going to be worrying until she comes back?” Vlad teases. 

Dmitry pushes him aside with one elbow. “She’s strong. She will be fine.”

“I know that. Not sure your heart does.” At Dmitry’s eye roll, he adds, “Nothing a glass of vodka can’t cure, my boy.”

It soon becomes obvious Vlad needs liquid courage more than Dmitry does, having decided he is going to the Neva Club later this evening to find Lily. Nastya had cooed a lot when he told them about his old fling with the Countess. Dmitry had made fun of him then, but he now takes the news for what it is: one step closer to meeting with the Empress. 

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Dmitry says before he finishes his drink. The vodka burns down his throat and settles uncomfortably in his stomach. “Best of luck, my friend.”

Dmitry makes one last stop before going back to the hotel. Nastya is already in their bedroom when he opens the room, sitting cross-legged with a book and offering him a curious look when she notices he is hiding something behind his back. 

“I come bearing gifts,” he announces proudly. 

Nastya discards the book to the side and rises to her knees, barely even able to hide her excitement. Dmitry brandishes the white paper box in front of him, and opens it with a flourish. Inside lie a dozen pink macarons. 

Nastya gasps loudly, before a high-pitched square escapes her lips as she starts bouncing on the bed. 

“Go on, try one!”

She delicately grabs one between two fingers, and bites into it. Her eyes close as she hums her approval. Dmitry wonders if there will come a day when she no longer will take his breath away from doing mundane things. He is glad today is not this day, basking in the glow of their love. 

He barely had time to put the box on the bed before Nastya throws herself at him. Her arms around his neck and her legs encircling his hips, she bumps her nose against his. “Thank you, Dima.”

When she kisses him, her mouth tastes like powdered sugar and freedom, sweet and soft and loving. His fingers tighten around her thighs, until he wonders if it will leave marks, if he can brand himself into her skin the way she did in his heart. She moans into his mouth, the sound muffled, and it brings a shiver down his spine. Or perhaps it is the way she moves her hips against him, just once, as if tasting the water. As if asking if he is as eager as she is.

Dmitry takes a step forward, his leg bumping against the edge of the bed. He would like to say putting Nastya on the mattress was smooth and well executed, but he drops her a little too carelessly and their teeth clash when she bounces back toward him, and she starts giggling nervously at his groan of pain.

When he leans backward, she brushes her hair away from her face with both hands  – cheeks red, lips swollen, eyes shining, she’s the most perfect creature he’s ever seen in his life. He loves her so much his heart might burst out of his ribcage, just from looking down at her like this.

“Dima…” she whispers, and it’s small and breathless. Almost anxious.

“We don’t have…” is his answer, because he is scared too. Terrified. “If you don’t want to…”

She rises just long enough to brush her lips against his. “No, I want to.”

It’s his time to falter then, old insecurities coming back to slap him in the face. He takes a deep breath, willing his fears away, frustrated when they don’t leave. For once, just this once, he would like not to think about everything else, not to linger on the fact that she’s not just his Nastya, but something else, something more. Just this once, he would like not to feel like he’s inadequate for her.

“Dima,” she says again, brushing her fingers against his jaw. When she smiles, it lights up her entire face. “We can find a priest now if you want and…”

“Oh god,” he panics. “Are you  _ proposing?” _

“If that’s helping.”

“Don’t propose just to have sex with me.”

“Then don’t be an ass about it.”

His eyes might as well be wide with terror, at this point. He stares at her for two more seconds, and she stares back, dead serious, before a nervous giggle escapes her. Dmitry finds himself laughing with her after another heartbeat, only to hide his face in her neck a moment later.

She tugs on his hair so he will look at her again. There is something almost reassuring about the certainty in her eyes. “It’s you. It’ll always be you, I promise.” 

And perhaps it is the way she says it – like she’s never believe anything more than she believes in the two of them, forever and always – that finally soothes the dilemma in Dmitry’s heart. Something about the pride and determination in her eyes, telling him she would fight an entire squad of Bolshevik soldiers to be with him. And Dmitry might not believe in himself, might not believe he’s worth much, but. He believes in her. And that is more than enough.

So he kisses her, surging forward with his entire body and stealing the air from her lungs. She chuckles into his mouth, her hands grasping at his back until they hold on to his shoulders. When he breaks away to kiss his way down her neck, nuzzling at her collarbone, her sigh is a heavenly sound on her lips. She’s warm and pliant under him, her fingers digging into his shoulders as to anchor him to her, and Dmitry can’t remember a reason why they didn’t do this months ago.

Or perhaps it is just the blood that has left his brain to travel south, leaving him dizzy and aching and wanting. He wants her, so much it hurts, so much he presses his hips to hers and is rewarded with the most beautiful moan of pleasure. She tugs at his shirt, Dmitry towering above her just long enough to get rid of the garment before he goes back to branding kisses into her neck. It might leave a mark in the morning; the idea thrills him more than he would have expected.

Let the world know. Let them all know the princess’s heart belong to the kitchen boy, given freely, never to be returned. Let them all know, he was hers from the moment they met, and he’s brave enough to consider Nastya his, too.

She pushes and pulls at his shoulders until he moves back up to kiss her again, his tongue warm against hers. With each passing moment, Dmitry finds himself bolder in his actions, hand settling on her leg before it travels up and under the hem of her dress. She’s wearing the blue one again and, as much as he loves it on her body, he will appreciate to get it off her even more.

He finds himself glad she’s no longer wearing layers upon layers of corsets and petticoats when his fingers meet the hem of her undergarments. He would have loved taking his time with her clothes, getting rid of one piece of fabric at a time until she stood bare in front of him, but the aching between his legs speaks of very little patience for those things right now.

As it is, Dmitry stands up and, hands grabbing her wrists, he pulls her up with him. She squeals and laughs when she lands against his chest with very little grace. His unladylike princess, his duchess of the street rats.

The mirth in her eyes turns to pure, unadulterated lust when his hands brush against her sides before he delicately makes her turn around. A neat row of buttons welcomes him at her back, too many of them for his thinning patience. He starts with the bow around her waist, tugging at it until it gives up, before he unfastens the first button at the nap of her neck. His fingers are trembling at first, making the task harder, but his confidence builds with each button, and then Dmitry is leaning forward, branding a kiss into her skin. Nastya’s entire body shivers under his mouth, and it is only the knowledge that she loves the dress so much that refrains him from ripping it off her body.

When he’s finally able to push the dress off her shoulders, it slips down her body and pools at her feet, leaving her almost bare to him. She turns around slowly, bottom lip caught between her teeth and cheeks pink with apprehension. A silk brassiere covers her breasts, matching the silk knickers that go all the way up to her navel, and Dmitry knows he’s staring a little too intently, but he can’t help himself.

“Beautiful,” he whispers.

She steps above her dress and closer to him, until her breasts brush against his chest and he forgets how to breathe. Her hands settle on his side, traveling down to his stomach, before they stop at the hem of his trousers. Her eyes ask a silent question, and Dmitry offers a sharp nod as an answer, letting her unfaster his belt, then his trousers. His undergarments are not as enticing as hers look, but it doesn’t matter much when he holds her close and brings her back to bed.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers, because he needs her to enjoy this as much as he has no idea what to do next.

“You. I just want you, Dima.” 

Part of him wishes he had more experience about such things, and more confidence too. But his body is attuned to hers, and so Dmitry works on instincts alone, kissing his way down her throat and between the valley of her breasts. She arches her back to get rid of the brassiere, offering her bare chest to him. Her nimples are pink and perky, and Dmitry closes his mouth around one, hums at the breathless moan that gets caught in her throat. He licks and sucks at it, adding a bit of teeth to startle her, and is rewarded with a myriad of sounds as she pants and moans and whispers his name, fingers tightening almost painfully in his hair.

When he releases her nimple with a popping sound, her blush has blossom all the way down her neck and her eyes are so hazy the blue has turned lighter. She’s a masterpiece. Dmitry noses between her breasts before he kisses his way down her navel and, hooking two fingers in the hem of her undergarments, rids her of the last piece of fabric she wears. Dark hair cover the mount of her sex, and she opens her legs to him in the most erotic of welcomes.

The moment is broken when Dmitry fumbles in his haste to take off his own undergarments, Nastya laughing so loud she hiccups a little. It is more them, though, the teasing and the playful banter that has followed them all the way from Ekaterinburg. He pokes his tongue at her as he moves to tower above her again, hands on each side of her face.

“Last chance to change your mind,” he teases before kissing her cheek.

“Please do shut up,” she says as she wraps her hand around him. 

He does not, indeed, shut up, for a low groan escapes him when she starts moving her hand up and down. He is not going to last long if she does that, which would be a shame. He wants her unraveling around his fingers, or against his tongue, or both, before he even has his way with her. So he grabs her wrist and makes her let go, and she does so with a pout, eager little thing that she is.

“Tell me to stop and I will. But tell me if it feels good too, okay?”

She nods, even if her eyes widen when he moves down her body, grabbing one of her legs to put it above his shoulder. He can read the question in her eyes before he kisses her knee, then further up her thigh. He pauses at her hip, fingers brushing against her entrance and making her twitch. She is so wet and wanting, and Dmitry groans once more.

“Dima,” she sighs, grabbing his hair once more. “You don’t have…”

He noses at her hip. “I want to.”

And when he licks her, she mewls so loudly he’s almost afraid the neighbours will complain about them. Her leg trembles above his shoulder as he kisses and licks and mouths at her entrance, before sucking at the little numb of nerves that has her unravelling around her mouth. She arches her back when he adds one finger, pumping in and out of her slowly at first, building the rhythm when he adds a second finger. He adapts to the sounds coming out of her mouth, faster, deeper, oh Dima, yes, until he has no other choice but to rub his hips against the mattress to get rid of some of the pression building in his lower abdomen.

When she comes, pulsing against his mouth and around his fingers, it is with a whisper of his name dying on her tongue and her fingers in his hair. Her body falls back against the mattress, the motion stealing a gasp from her mouth. With her legs opened to him and a blush going all the way down her breasts, Dmitry can’t remember why he waited so long to do this.

She tugs at his hair, forcing him back up before she captures his lips into a ferocious kiss. That she still has the energy to fight him into affections almost makes him laugh, but the feeling is soon forgotten when she flips them around so she can tower over him. With her hair a halo of golden-red curls around her shoulder and her hands firmly pressing him against the bed, she looks like a Greek goddess ready for battle.

Nastya rolls her hips against his tentatively, rewarded by a low groan at the back of his throat. Dmitry is pretty sure he is not going to last long if she keeps at it, which is going to be painfully embarrassing. It’s not his fault if she’s slowly but surely torturing him with her body and her love and her everything; he was never meant to survive her.

“I love you,” she whispers with another, pointed roll of her hips.

Dmitry wants to reply, but he only growls instead. That makes her laugh, before she forces him to push his hips off the mattress to get rid of the last barrier of fabric between them. She forgets to laugh then when, grabbing him and guiding him at her entrance, she slowly lowers herself on him. She gasps and he moans at the feeling of her around him, tight and warm and everything.

He wants to look at her in all her naked glory, but his head tilts back and his eyes shut close as his entire body fights the urge to just flip them around and have his way with her, quick and dirty. His muscles aches from flexing so much, his jaw clenched. 

“Move, for fuck’s sake,” he somewhat manages to mutter.

And boy, moving she does. It’s tentative and awkward at first, hips bumping in a strange cadence, before she grabs his waist and sets the pace. Slowly at first, which is killing him, his blood boiling in his veins, tension rising low in his stomach. But she picks up speed each time she lowers herself on him, and then she’s fucking wrecking him as a man.

He knew it was her, it has always been her. But now he’s certain they can never be anyone else, because she’s ruining him for every other woman. She’s too perfect; the bar is too high. With her breasts bouncing, and her pink mouth opened in a wordless gap, and the freckles on her collarbones, she’s just. Everything.

He flips them around, and she gasps. “Sorry,” he mutters into her neck. “I just… I need…”

She runs her fingers through his hair, bites on his ear. It’s too much, way too much, and it only takes Dmitry a few more seconds before he comes with a groan of her name on his lips.

Body glistening with sweat, he lets himself fall on top of her, careful not to crush her too much. She kisses the side of his head, again and again, and mutters love letters into his ear.

“Fuck,” is his only answer, and she giggles lightly.

“The feeling is mutual.”

She pushes him off, and Dmitry rolls to the side with his arm around her waist so he can keep her close. Her cheeks are still red and her eyes shine brighter than a thousand stars, and god but she turned him into a sap. She must read – whatever feelings are written all over his face, love and devotion and complete wonder, because she kisses his cheek with so much care that his heart misses a beat.

“Fuck, I love you,” he finds himself whispering.

Her fingers are on his jaw next, and she grins. “Sex makes you swear like a sailor. Good to know.”

“Do not mock me, woman,” he threatens weakly. His eyes feel heavy already, and so do his limbs. He hugs Nastya closer to him, hides his face in her neck. “I’m too exhausted to keep up with your barbs.”

“You can  _ never _ keep up with my barbs,” she corrects.

He nips at the delicate skin of her throat, grins when she startles. “Let me pretend, okay?”

“Sure, Dima. Sure…” 

She runs her fingers through his hair once more, in that soothing way he loves so much. Once she said he was a cat, hungry for affection but too proud to admit it. He told her she was a puppy, excitable and cuddly and adorable. She’d laughed so much she almost fell off her chair.

He’s in that state between sleep and awake, his entire body heavy and cotton-like, his mind wandering this and that way, when she speaks up next. “I saw my grandfather’s bridge.”

Dmitry forces himself to raise his head and look at her, because it sounds important. Secrets shared on a pillow, with only the blankets to hide them from the world. “How is it?”

“Big, white, lots of gold.” She pouts. “Very Russian.”

Dmitry chuckles lightly at the joke, before he tightens his grip on her. “With all that happened, we barely had time to discuss about how you feel.”

“I’m all right,” she sighs. An obvious lie if there ever was one. “It’s just that… I was never the favourite, you know? Tatiana was. And I can’t help thinking – what is Nana is disappointed, that is it me and not one of my sisters? Or Alexei, the rightful heir?”

Dmitry moves up in bed so he can sit against the headboard, pulling her up until she sits on top of him. Still naked, with Nastya straddling him, and yet the atmosphere different than it was a few minutes ago. “You, Anastasia Romanova, are the most amazingly perfect person I know,” he tells her in earnest. She blushes from the root of her hair all the way down her neck. “And that old woman will be relieved beyond words, knowing one of her granddaughters survived. And she will love you for who you are, not who you could have been.”

Nastya nibbles on her bottom lip, tears rising in her eyes. When Dmitry cups her face and kisses her, he pours all of her feelings for her into it, pours his heart and his soul.

“Thank you, Dima.” Her eyes shines in the low light. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“The exact same thing, only with a lot less yelling and door slamming.”

When she laughs, it’s the most beautiful sound in the world.

They fall asleep entangled in each other, Nastya’s breath warm against his collarbone. She wakes him up hours later, with her hand between his legs and her teeth on his shoulder, and she comes twice around his fingers and against his tongue before he spends himself inside her.

No nightmare comes to haunt her this time.

Vlad is still nowhere to be seen when they go downstairs to the hotel’s restaurant for breakfast the following morning. Nastya hides her snort into her cup of tea when Dmitry implies that their old friend has some fun of his own with his Countess. Good on Vlad. He deserves a bit of happiness too, especially with how much they make him go through on a daily basis. Dmitry has stopped counting how many times Vlad has found himself in the middle of a heated argument between Nastya and him. Poor man.

When Nastya stands up, once her plate is empty, it’s to trail her fingers up Dmitry’s arm. “I say we wait for him this morning. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn't mind a long bath right now.”

Dmitry’s brain takes a second too long to catch up with the meaning behind her words, and he almost trips on his own feet in his haste to follow her back to their room. She only laughs at him above her shoulder, and winks.

 

…

 

This Countess Lily is an interesting character, to put it lightly. She needs but one glance at Nastya to fall to her knees with a ‘Your Imperial Highness’ muttered respectfully, which only results in Nastya squirming. But once the protocol and all the bowing and kowtowing are put behind them, Lily forces Nastya to stand up in the middle of her living room so she can, quite literally, examine her to her heart’s desire.

“Oh, look at you,” Lily says, brushing some hair away from Nastya’s face. “Beautiful, just like Olga.”

Nastya frowns, just a little. “Tatiana was the beautiful one.”

“Which is why I didn’t compare you to her,” Lily waves off and turns around to pour herself a drink.

Ain incredulous snort escapes Dmitry’s nose, while Nastya slowly turns on her heels to share a look with him, her eyes wide. Her expression can’t quite settle, between amusement and outrage. Dmitry takes a step closer to the older woman.

“Did you just insult the last living Grand Duchess?”

Lily waves him off once more, before she takes a large sip of whiskey. “She’s Russian! She’ll get over it.”

From his place sitting in a plush sofa in the corner of the room, Vlad snorts loudly, even more so at the twin affronted looks Dmitry and Nastya give him. By his reaction alone, it is easy to assume the Countess’s brash temper is usual, and not only a bad reaction to the knowledge a Romanov is alive. Dmitry simply can’t decide if it is a good thing or not. People have gotten them into problems from way less, before. 

Vlad must sense the tension rising within Nastya, fingers playing with the hem of her blouse as she chews on her lip, for he leans forward in his seat. 

“Lily, darling,” he cajoles. “When will the Grand Duchess be able to meet with her grandmother?”

Lily lets out a high-pitched giggle before she pours herself another drink. A glance at Nastya, and she adds more alcohol to the drink, only to take a long sip. Dmitry’s eyebrow raises, undecided between impressed and frightened. 

“I will be honest with you, child,” she tells Nastya before putting her drink back on the table. She walks toward Nastya, and delicately grabs her hands. “It has been a long year for your Nana. She isn’t as young as she used to be, and the announcement of your father’s death took its toll on her. She’s… desperate might not be the word, but you understand me.” Lily stops, waiting for Nastya to nod, which she does silently. “An imposter came to us two months ago. Quite convincing, I’ll give her that. The Empress was heartbroken when we found out the truth.”

Nastya’s mouth opens into a wordless gasp, before she finds her voice again. “I’m not an imposter.” Dmitry fights back a smirk at her affront, because of course Vlad and he would both think of it, but she wouldn’t. It was the first thing on both their street rat’s minds when they heard of a reward, after all. But Nastya, so pure of heart, would never be cunning enough to go along with such a plan, let alone come up with it.

Lily’s fingers touch her cheek, in a gesture so motherly Nastya’s features are struck with shock and melancholy for a moment. “I know, darling. But we will have to ease her into the idea, all right?”

Nastya nods, almost numbly. Something is not quite right, though, fear shining in her eyes even if it doesn’t settle on her delicate features. Decency and pretences be damned, Dmitry walks toward her so he can put his hand on her lower back. Her entire body is tense against his fingers, but she sends him a grateful look.

“Is there any way to see the Empress before being formally introduced to her?” Dmitry asks the Countess.

Lily looks at him like she’s seeing him for the first time, like she didn’t notice him until now. It is a slap in the face, for Dmitry hadn’t felt like this in a very long while, like nothing more than a servant, invisible to the point of disappearing in the tapestry of the walls. It takes all of Dmitry’s strength not to take a step back and bow his head, instead looking at the older woman straight in the eyes. Her eyes move to his arm, where Nastya’s hand lays naturally, before they flick back up. It lasts barely more than a second, but a lot of things can be say about the way they stand next to each other, the way Nastya feel at ease by his side.

“We have box tickets for Swan Lake in two days. You are more than welcomed to buy tickets of you own,” is her answer.

“Thank you,” Vlad tells her, finally standing up.

She offers him a smile, before she looks at Nastya again. “We will need to work on your wardrobe. Those rags are only good enough for a middle-class parisienne, not a woman of your rank.”

Dmitry’s mouth opens, but Nastya beats him to it. “Many things have changed since Papa was Tsar. Including my wardrobe.”

Lily clicks her tongue, obviously unpleased but unwilling to argue against the Grand Duchess. She turns around to grab her drink, and takes a sip before she gestures at Nastya with the glass. “Nonetheless, you will need a dress for the evening. Come to me in the afternoon, I will take care of everything.”

Nastya grabs the woman’s hands again. “Thank you, Lily.”

The woman softens ever so slightly. Who wouldn’t, when attacked in such a way by the princess’s kindness and beautiful eyes? One of the many reasons why Dmitry never was able to deny her anything, and she knows it all too well.

“You’re welcome, Your Highness.”

Only when they leave the Countess’s hôtel particulier does Dmitry feel like breathe properly again. He inhales sharply and loudly, closing his eyes as he tilts his head up and wills the knows in his shoulders again. Vlad lingers for a few minutes longer inside, but Nastya stands next to him, and notices immediately.

“What’s going on?” she asks softly, grabbing his hand.

He looks down at her, at her hopeful yet scared eyes, and for a moment he doesn’t want to worry her with his problems. But they promised not to keep secrets from each other, not anymore, and Dmitry refuses to start lying to her again.

“I’m not used to being the help anymore,” he admits in a whisper.

Her eyes widen, before she looks back at the front door above her shoulder. Of course, she hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. And why would she? She grew up doing much the same, ignoring servants and being used to them working in the shadows. “Dima…” 

He waves her off before she can offer empty apologises. “It’s fine. I guess I will need to get used to it again.”

Her eyes harden as she takes a step forward and closer to him, her fingers tightening their hold on his fingers. Not for the first time, she looks more ready for battle than anything else. “No,” she declares in the kind of voice that leaves no place for argument. “You no longer are a royal servant. You’re…” She hesitates, and a myriad of words fly through Dmitry’s head. Lover. Fiancé. Husband. None of them adequate to define their relationship. “You’re mine, now. And nobody shall ever make you feel inferior to them from this day.”

He smiles, but it’s sad and resigned, before leans to brush his lips against hers. “If only it were that easy.”

“But it is. Because I say so.”

The front door closes behind Vlad before Dmitry has time to find the right words to reply and explain that she cannot just will people into seeing Dmitry differently. He was born without a title, and with a name that would soon be associated to anarchist ideas and anti-tsarist propaganda. None of those royalists that will soon make her social circle will ever welcome him as one of their own, another sharp reminder that Dmitry doesn’t belong by her side. But Nastya is too blinded by her love for him, and her will to be reunited with her grandmother, to see the bigger picture.

Instead, she pulls on his arm and he follows her down the street. They wander around the streets of Paris for the remaining of the afternoon, taking in the sights and buying pastries when her stomach grumbles for food. Vlad gives some excuse as to make it back to the hotel early, even though they all know he will be meeting with Lily again, and leaves them on their own on the Ile de la Cité. They visit Nôtre-Dame before it closes for the night, before finding a small restaurant where to eat.

It is so mundane and pleasant, just two tourists in love discovering Paris, that Dmitry forgets his worries. Even more so when he gets to fall asleep with Nastya’s naked body pressed against his own, their bedroom smelling of her floral perfume and sweat and sex. In this universe between sleep and awakeness where everything is possible, Dmitry finds himself thinking that he could do just this for the rest of his life and be content.

The following few days are spent trying to keep Nastya’s mind from wandering back to her anxieties as much as possible, which means waking up early and doing everything Paris has to offer until her brain is too full to have place for anything else. Thankfully for them, Paris indeed has a lot to offer, between the museums and art galleries and parks and cafés and restaurants and shops. Vlad pawns off another diamond to pay for all their activities as well as the hotel, and it only serves as another painful reminder than this life of riches is temporary for Dmitry. Soon, he will need to find a job and learn French. His understanding of the language is limited at best, and he has to admit so far he is doing very little to change this, when he has Nastya by his side to translate everything. But, as good of a cook as he is, no one will bet their money on him if he can’t communicate with them. Another reason on the long list as to why he makes such a poor prospect for Nastya. But he is trying. That has to count for something, right?

Friday sees them back at Lily’s apartment, Vlad and Dmitry waiting on their own in the living room while Lily took Nastya with her and two ladies-in-waiting to another room. Dmitry sits in a too expensive chair, his leg bouncing against the plush carpet. His thumb stuck between his teeth, he ignores the fanthom slap of his father’s hand on his, demanding that he stops biting his nails. His lips twitches at the memory, before he winces at the pain in his finger and the taste of blood on his tongue.

“You okay there, son?” Vlad asks.

Dmitry’s eyes are wide when they settle on the older man’s, and the words tumblr out of his mouth before he can swallow them back down. “Do you think I should propose?”

The question takes Vlad by surprise, if the way he chokes on his own saliva is anything to go by. Dmitry worries for a moment, before his friend comes to sit next to him. “Where is that coming from?”

“She’s been talking about it. I think she expects it to happen and, I mean.” He sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. “It would just make it official, you know? It’s not as if we weren’t already planning to spend the rest of our lives together, and we love each other and. I think it would make her happy. Maybe.”

Vlad remains silent for a moment too long, and Dmitry’s thumb flies back to his mouth. “Who are you trying to convince here, Dima?”

His head falls in a sigh, almost bumping against his knees in the process. Vlad offers him a laugh and a pat of the back, neither of which are much comfort to him. His mind keeps running circles, has been for the past week now. It is exhausting, to say the truth. He’s exhausted with himself.

“You both deserve to be happy,” Vlad says. “And I can’t imagine either of you happy if you are not together. Not to mention…”

Whatever Vlad wants to mention gets lost with Nastya’s voice rising from behind the door “You want me to  _ WHAT?” _

Both men raise their heads and, only a few seconds later, Nastya opens the door with so much strength it slams against the wall and bounces back. She wears nothing but a satin robe, her hair up in a chignon and her eyes screaming of murder. She locks eyes with Dmitry, and he fears for his life even though he has done nothing wrong this time around.

“She is crazy,” she yells as she points behind her. Then, turning around to face Lily, “You are crazy. I’m not doing it.”

Dmitry half stands up, before he thinks better of it. Not that Lily cares much about him anyway, trying to placate Nasta as best as she can. Yes, good luck with that. “Every parisienne does it. It is the highest of fashion at the moment, and I believe you…”

“I’m not doing it,” she says, and it sounds finale. Then, turning to Dmitry again, “Tell her I’m not doing it.”

“She’s not doing it,” he parrots back dutifully. “But what are you talking about?”

She points at Lily once more, without looking at her. “She wants me to shave my armpits. Apparently it’s a  _ thing _ here!”

Lily takes a tentative step forward. “Your Highness, it is found to be attractive and…”

“Would you find me more attractive without armpit hair?” she asks Dmitry.

It takes Dmitry’s brain a few more seconds to catch up with the problem at hand, and then he’s more confused than anything else. He blinks up at Nastya, mouth opening wordlessly, to which she replies by putting her hands on her hips. Clearly waiting for his opinion on the matter.

“You’ve always been attractive to me,” he replies, stuttering on his words a little. The words would ring hollow and cliché to anyone else, but Dmitry has never been more certain of anything else. He has seen Nastya at her worse, shaved hair, emaciated cheeks, without a bath for several months. And not once he found her unattractive. Not a single time did Dmitry question the fact that she could be anything but perfectly lovely.

She turns on her heels once more to look at Lily, pointing at him this time. “See! He doesn’t care! And to be quite frank, I don’t care about being attractive to anyone but him!”

Dmitry’s cheeks turn so red they might as well catch fire, not that either woman notice nor care when they are otherwise busy holding a staring contest. Lily must suddenly remember decades of waiting on royals, because she soon bows her head in acceptance.

“Very well, Your Imperial Highness. Shall we care on?”

Nastya’s chin is a little higher when she follows Lily back into the other room. Air escapes Dmitry’s lungs in a long, suffering sigh as he sits back against the chair’s back. 

“That’s who you want to marry,” Vlad comments idly. “This, for the rest of your life.”

Despite everything, a smirk settles on Dmitry’s lips. God, but he loves her bad temper, especially when it’s not targetted at him. “This, for the rest of my life.”

It takes Nastya another hour or so to get ready for the evening at the ballet, which gives Dmitry and Vlad ample time to shrug on their suits and bicker about Dmitry’s laces. Apparently, simply tugging them in is not enough, and Vlad corrects him on the best way to tie his shoes twice before Dmitry snaps and pushes him away. Still he kneels to fix everything, because the last thing he wants is to look like Anastasia Romanova’s unkempt date to the opera. She deserves better than him making her look bad.

The door opens when he’s tying the second shoe and, when he raises his head, he forgets to breathe. She’s a vision in blue, her slim waist accentuated by the corset, her pale shoulders sparkling with diamonds. Everything designed to bring out the blue of her eyes.

Dmitry blinks, breathless and speechless, before he manages to stand up again. He remembers the little icons they would print out, each a portrait of a royal sister in her white dress, regal and beautiful. Those official pictures don’t compare to the sight in front of him now and, if Dmitry were not already so deeply in love with her, he would have fallen on the spot. His heart bangs painfully against his ribcage.

Yes, this. Her, for the rest of his life.

“Your Imperial Highness,” he says, kneeling again in front of her, arms crossed at the wrists on his leg. He hasn’t bowed to anyone in a very long time, the motion almost forgotten but coming back to him in waves.

“Dima, stop it.”

She’s blushing by the time he stands up again, even more so when he brushes a rebel strand of hair away from her face. He mouths a ‘I love you’ to her before offering his arm. Her hand lies delicately in the crook of his elbow as they make their way out of the apartment and into the street, where an automobile waits to bring them to the opera. Beside one comment on how he cleans up nicely, Nastya remains silent for the duration of the car journey, and then follows him dutifully inside the opera house. 

They are shown to their seats in a box, then left to their own devices. Which, for Nastya, means grabbing the programme and turning it into confettis, little flakes of paper all over the red carpet of their box before the show has even started. Dmitry puts a pair of binoculars in her lap before he takes one of her hands and nods to a box on the opposite side of the theatre.

A strangled gasp escapes her when she notices her grandmother now sitting by Lily’s side. If you asked either of them what the ballet was about, they wouldn’t be able to answer, for Nastya was too busy staring at her Nana during the performance, and Dmitry too busy admiring the look of sheer happiness on her features to care about anything else.

The red curtain falls for the intermission, and Lily appears by Nastya’s side only moments later. “Come with me,” she says without any introduction. “She’s seen you, and she wants to meet you.”

Nastya’s gasp echoes between them, before both her hands grab Dmitry’s so tightly he is afraid it will leave bruises. She glances at him, to confirm he will follow her, before she stands up. “Breathe,” he whispers into her ear as he stands up too. She takes a large gulp of air as she leaves the box, pulling Dmitry along with her. He only has time to send a panicking glance to Vlad before he is dragged along the back of the theatre, all the way to the opposite boxes.

“She’s here, Your Imperial Highness,” Lily says as she lifts a pan of curtain.

“Bring her to me,” comes the voice from inside the box. Dmitry swallows back a curse when Nastya’s fingers hurt his hand even more than before. She lets go of him then, and takes a tentative few steps forward, before she blindly reaches behind her. Dmitry walks on, so that her fingers can brush against his hip and so she knows he is not leaving her side.

The Empress sits proudly in the middle of her box, hands folded delicately in her lap and chin held high. She takes one glance at Nastya before frowning slightly. “Come closer, child. My eyes are not as good as they used to be.”

“Maybe you should wear spectacles,” is Nastya’s answer, before she gasps at her own impudence. “I’m so sorry!”

Instead of being insulted, the Empress laughs. “Oh, shvibzik,” she whispers, so loving, so fond.

Nastya needs very little less to throws herself at her grandmother, arms around the old woman’s shoulders. Her sobs are muffled into the neck of the Empress, but loud enough for Dmitry to worry for her well-being, until the woman rubs her hand against Nastya’s back and whispers into her ear. They talks to each other in hushed, hurried Russian until the lights flicker to announced the second act of the ballet. Neither woman move from their embrace, and so Lily puts her hand on Dmitry’s forearm.

“Come, boy. Let me offer you a drink so they can have some privacy.”

He numbly follows her back to the lobby, where ushers are herding people back to their seats. Lily ignores them and walks toward the bar, where she asks for two vodkas. Dmitry numbly grabs it and swallows down the alcohol, wincing at the burn in his throat. It does very little to settle the twisting feeling in his stomach and, for a moment, he wonders if he is going to vomit.

“Don’t look so grim, boy.”

“I’ve done it,” is the only thing he manages to say. It’s as if someone has stolen his brain and filled his skull with cotton instead, Dmitry unable to process proper thoughts as he stares at a spot on the wall without even seeing it. The barman pours him a second drink, and he downs it as fast as the first one. “I did it. She’s home.”

He lets out an incredulous laugh, just in time to welcome Vlad to their party. Vlad, who pops open the champagne instead, putting a glass in Dmitry’s hands to celebrate. Dmitry remembers very little after that, until the audience is flooding the lobby once more at the end of the performance and he finds himself confused and a little bit lost. They wait until most of the crowd has spilled onto the street before looking for Nastya, which isn’t all that hard between her dress and the fact that she is standing next to the former Empress of All of Russia herself.

The Empress needs but only look at Vlad to coldly say, “I remember you.”

Eye widening with terror, Vlad bows to her and finds some excuse or another to run away from her, soon followed by Lily. Which leaves Dmitry alone with the woman and Nastya, and frightened too.

“I remember you too,” she says when she looks at him, although her voice is softer. “You used to bring me tea when I was staying at the palace.” He bows his head to her, staring at her shoes and trying to remember the protocol. Speak only when spoken to, but what else? “Rise, boy.”

He does so, even though he is hesitant to look at her in the eyes at first. A glance to Nastya reassures him that he is not in trouble, her smiles more radiant than it has been in a very long while. He sees her in her grandmother  – the blue eyes of course, but also the pride, the bravery. She stares at him in silence, giving Dmitry the uncomfortable feeling of being weighed, measured and found wanting, before she turns to her granddaughter.

“So that is your young man.”

Nastya blushes despite her grin. “I told you, his name is Dmitry.”

Her young man. He does like the sound of that. “It’s an honour meeting you, Your Highness.”

“And polite too,” she comments. Nastya bites back a smirk, little vixen that she is. “Thank you for bringing my darling granddaughter back to me, young Dmitry. I will see that your reward be given in good and due form.”

“With all due respect, Your Highness, I do not need your money. Nastya’s happiness at being reunited with you is all the reward I need.”

“Dima,” Nastya says, taking a step forward to grab his hand. “Why…”

“Your happiness,” he says again, cupping her face in his hand, “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Her eyes fill with tears as she leans up and presses a sealing kiss to his cheek. She lingers for longer than decency would like, before she steps away. “I’ll spend the night with Nana, but we’ll see each other tomorrow?”

Swallowing around the knot in his throat  – even when they were not talking to each other, they never spent a night in different places  – Dmitry can only nod at her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

…

 

He doesn’t see her the following day.

Actually, he doesn’t see her for the next three days, more and more miserable as time passes by and she is not back by her side. He doesn’t leave his hotel room the first day, waiting for her, and then he simple wanders aimlessly around Paris until Vlad shakes him out of his torpor. Vlad and Lily take pity on him, directing him to a tea shop owned by a Russian man named Nikita. Nikita is as large as he is tall, with a booming voice and even louder laugh. He tells Dmitry to make blinis, and hires him straight away.

Not enough to hope paying for an apartment’s deposit quite yet, but it keeps his mind busy the following day, which is all Dmitry needs not to lose it on the spot. The sight of her empty half of the bed is more painful than he would have thought, even though he knows he hasn’t lost her. She is entitled to spend time with her long-lost relative, and he has no right to be an asshole about it.

He crosses the Pont Alexandre III on his way back to the hotel that evening, and stops to enjoy the view. As miserable as he feels, it doesn’t change the fact that Paris is beautiful. Not as beautiful as his Petersburg, but still easy on the eyes. The sun is starting to set down, enveloping the city in its golden hue. Dmitry closes his eyes, tilting his head up to appreciate the warmth on his face and the soft wind in his hair. It is nice, he has to admit.

“I always dreamed of my first kiss happening on this bridge.”

Nastya’s voice takes him out of his reverie, her shoulder pressed into his arm as she leans next to him against the railing. She’s wearing his blue dress again, her hair falling freely around her shoulders and her eyes shining with glee when she looks up at him. Her smile falters when she sees the purple bags under his eyes and the look of utter misery on his face.

“Dima…” she starts.

“I’m fine,” he lies.

“You clearly are not,” she replies, her voice a little harder.

He shakes his head. “I’m missed you, is all.” He looks back at the river in front of him, if only because it makes it easy to admit his fears than if he were staring at her. “I was so afraid you were never coming back.”

“Oh Dima…” Her arms encircle his waist from the side, before he pulls her into a tight embrace and presses his nose to her hair. The hug feels like home more than any palace, any hotel room ever could. “I’m sorry.”

He kisses the side of her head. “You have nothing to apologise for. It’s all on me.”

She hugs him a little bit closer, until he can no longer remember where his body ends and hers starts. They’ve always fit so well together, two pieces of the same board. “I’ve missed you too, so much. Nana introduced me to all those people, and they are so dull, Dima! Nobody cracks a joke and everyone is so serious all the time. It was awful.”

He leans away from her, if only to cup her face. She’s smiling despite her wet eyes. “No falling in love with an exiled Count, then?”

When she makes a face of obvious disgust, he finally smiles. “No. Guess I’ll have to keep you instead.”

“Poor darling,” he tries to joke, but it falls flat even to his own ears.

Nastya pushes her hair away from her face, tongue darting out to lick her lips; the telltale sign that she is nervous about whatever she is about to say next. “I’ve been think a lot, these past few days,” she starts, before she lets go of him to take something out of her pocket. When she opens her hand, one of the diamonds lies in her palm. “There was this one day in Petersburg, when Vlad and I were looking at the diamonds. He was sad, because this one isn’t perfect. Look, it’s a little cloudy inside. Vlad thought we wouldn’t get as much money with this one, but I decided it was my favourite one. So I always made sure we didn’t pawn it off.”

Dmitry is frowning by now. As lovely as the story is, and as much as it says about Anastasia as a person, he is confused why she is telling him all this. Especially now.

“Anyway,” she goes on, delicately grabbing the diamonds between two fingers. She closes her fist, and holds the diamond above the fourth finger of her hand. “It would make a beautiful ring, don’t you think?”

And there it is, the cotton brain again. “Nastya…”

“I talked to Nana when she tried to introduce me to a young Russian Duke, and I told her. I told her about you, and that I would never marry anyone but you, so she didn’t have to send a handful of suitors and... What do you think, Dima?”

He blinks. Down at the diamond. Back at her. The diamond again. And then her. He blinks, and then he laughs, grabbing her by the waist to make her spin. She shrieks and laughs and hides her face in his neck, and Dmitry wonders if this is it. If this is what happiness tastes like.

“I got a job,” is the first thing on his mind. “So we can find a little flat of our own. And get a dog. You always wanted a dog, right? We could still visit Vlad, and your Nana, but it would be a home of our own. With a bathroom. And a door that locks, instead of climbing through the window. And on Sundays, I’ll make you blinis, and we’ll go to church, and spend the rest of the day in bed. And this summer we’ll go to the beach, and you won’t have to wear this ridiculously big hat to protect you from the sun. And... And...” He stops, breathless, before he giddily kisses her, his lips bruising against her mouth. “Marry me.”

“Is that an order or a question?” she teases.

“Shut up and answer.” 

Her eyes widen comically, taking pleasure in torturing him. “I can’t do both at the same time, you’ll have to…”

Her words are muffled when he kisses her again, hard and unforgiving, until she laughs into his mouth and pushes him away. With her hair painted crimson by the setting sun and her eyes shining like a hundredth stars, she looks regal and beautiful.

He pries her hand open so he can take the diamond from her, before he falls to his knees in front of her. “Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova, will you please be my wife? And with those strangers as my witnesses, I swear if you make another joke I will throw that diamond into the Seine.”

When she laughs, it sounds like crystal bells, the most beautiful music to his ears. “Yes,” she whispers.

“Can’t hear you.”

“Yes!”

He playfully frowns. “Try again?”

“YES, YOU IDIOT!”

“All right, all right,” he jokes as he stands up again. “Don’t sound so desperate.”

She slaps his shoulder, but she also kisses him. And kisses him. And kisses him.

“You were wrong,” she whispers against his mouth when they come up for air. Her nose rubs against his, and she plays with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Princesses do marry kitchen boys.”

At least, this one does. And for Dmitry, it’s more than enough.


End file.
